e, are gone. She gropes her way, in the darkness of age, for a drink of water. Instead of the voices of her children, she hears by day the moans of the dove, and by night the screams of the hideous owl. All is gloom. The grave is at the door. ...She stands-she sits-she staggers-she falls-she groans-she dies-and there are none of her children or grandchildren present, to wipe from her wrinkled brow the cold sweat of death, or to
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