At least Theobald was not. She
had been, but she was sure she had grown in grace since she had 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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