‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours. My mom doesn’t realize that I’ve got my own style. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor. I bring you tidings of an old friend. He’s been near it once or twice already. I ought to have seen—” “It doesn’t matter a rap—if you’re not disposed to resent the—the way I behaved.
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