The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. Wood, despair will come over me; and, dear as this babe is to me, far dearer than my own wretched life, which I would lay down for him any minute, I have prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather than he should grow up to be a man, and be exposed to his father's temptations—rather than he should live as wickedly and die as disgracefully as his father. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. I’m sorry I ruined dinner.
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