Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. CHAPTER XXVIII. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. It was a purse. 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.
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