‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery.
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