"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. Jack affected to close the door, but left it slightly ajar. She was instinctively aware of him as she had been of Julian. In the next place, she really had some pretensions to beauty. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage.
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