You've hid your tears that
cunnin', but my old eyes has seen the marks this many day an' sorrered for
'e. 'Tis a hard matter viewed from the point what you looks 'pon it; but I
knaws you, my awn good gal; I knaws your Saviour's done a 'mazin' deal to
hold you up. An' 'twont be for long, 'cause the man'll come for her mighty
soon seemin'ly. Can 'e faace it, the Lard helpin'? Poor Joan's bin kicked
out the house by her faither. I do _not_ like en--never did. What do
'e say? She doan't count it no sin, mind you, an' doan't look for no
reprovin', 'cause the gen'leman have taught her terrible coorious ideas;
but 'tis just this: we'm all sinners, eh, Polly? An' us caan't say 'sactly
what size a sin do look to God A'mighty's eye. An' us have got the Lard's
way o' handlin' sich like troubles writ out clear--eh? Eh, Polly? He dedn'
preach no sermon at the time neither."
The old man prattled on, setting out the position in the most favorable
light to Joan that seemed possible to him. But his listener was one no
longer. She had forgotten her cousin and the present circumstances, for her
thoughts were with a sailor at sea. One tremendous moment of savage joy
gripped her heart, but the primitive passion perished in its birth-pang and
left her cold and faint and ashamed. She wondered from what unknown,
unsecured corner of her soul the vile thing came. It died on the instant,
but the corpse fouled her thoughts and tainted them and made her feel faint
again.
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