"Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones.
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