Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people. The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. After quarter of an hour, she followed. 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. His tone was rough, almost threatening. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels.
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