Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. He knew what he knew. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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