Keith MacKinnon

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We entered a cabin. Stretched in one dark corner, scarcely visible from the smoke and rags that covered them, were three children huddled together, lying there because they were too weak to rise, pale and ghastly; their little limbs, on removing a portion of the filthy covering, perfectly emaciated, eyes sunk, voice gone, and evidently in the last stage of actual starvation. Crouched over the turf embers was another form, wild and all but naked, scarcely human in appearance . . . We entered upwards of fifty of these tenements. The scene was invariably the same.
The Immortal Irishman: Thomas Meager and the Invention of Irish America
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