‘The truth is, Everett,’ she said brightly, limping up to the general and tucking a hand in his arm, ‘that the girl is you all over again. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. Wood, I forget nothing. I think it inadvisable—I don’t want an intimacy to spring up between you and a man of that type. He carried a small bag.
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