Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. "Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop.
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