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. It is like some accident. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity.
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