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“There now, Eliza, it’s too bad for me to make you feel so, poor girl!” said he,
fondly; “it’s too bad. O, how I wish you never had seen me-you might have been

“George! George! how can you talk so? What dreadful thing has happened, or
is going to happen? I’m sure we’ve been very happy, till lately.”

“So we have, dear,” said George. Then drawing his child on his knee, he
gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and passed his hand through his long

“Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest woman I ever saw, and the
best one I ever wish to see; but, oh, I wish I’d never seen you, nor you me!”

“O George, how can you!”

“Yes, Eliza, it’s all misery, misery, misery! My life is bitter as wormwood; the
very life is burning out of me. I’m a poor, miserable, forlorn drudge; I shall only
drag you down with me, that’s all. What’s the use of our trying to do anything, try-
ing to know anything, trying to be anything? What’s the use of living? I wish I
was dead!”

“O now, dear George, that is really wicked! I know how you feel about losing
your place in the factory, and you have a hard master; but pray be patient, and per-
haps something-”

“Patient!” said he, interrupting her; “haven’t I been patient? Did I say a word
when he came and took me away, for no earthly reason, from the place where eve-
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