However that may be, I resolved (no matter what became of
me) never again to serve the man who had beaten me. I unlocked
the door of our miserable lodging at daybreak the next morning;
and, at ten years old, with my little bundle in my hand, I faced
the world alone.
"My mother had confided to me, in her last moments, my father's
name and the address of his house in London. 'He may feel some
compassion for you' (she said), 'though he feels none for me: try
him.' I had a few shillings, the last pitiful remains of my
wages, in my pocket; and I was not far from London. But I never
went near my father: child as I was, I would have starved and
died rather than go to him. I had loved my mother dearly; and I
hated the man who had turned his back on her when she lay on her
deathbed. It made no difference to Me that he happened to be my
father.
"Does this confession revolt you? You look at me, Mr. Holmcroft,
as if it did.
"Think a little, sir. Does what I have just said condemn me as a
heartless creature, even in my earliest years? What is a father
to a child--when the child has never sat on his knee, and never
had a kiss or a present from him? If we had met in the street, we
should not have known each other.
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