At least Theobald was not. She had been, but she was sure
she had grown in grace since she left off eating things strangled
and blood -this was as the washing in Jordan as against Abana and
Pharpar, rivers of Damascus. Her boy should never touch a strangled
fowl nor a black pudding- that, at any rate, she could see to. He
should have a coral from the neighbourhood of Joppa- there were
coral insects on those coasts, so that the thing could easily be
done with a little energy; she would write to Dr. Jones about it, etc.
And so on for hours together day after day for years. Truly, Mrs.
Theobald loved her child according to her lights with an exceeding
great fondness, but the dreams she had dreamed in sleep were sober
realities in comparison with those she indulged in while awake.
When Ernest was in his second year, Theobald, as I have already
said, began to teach him to read. He began to whip him two days
after he had begun to teach him.
"It was painful," as he said to Christina, but it was the only thing
to do and it was done. The child was puny, white and sickly, so they
sent continually for the doctor who dosed him with calomel and James's
powder.
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