Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. Let—it—fall. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning.
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