" "I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers," observed Wood. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Nor was Jack by any means the only stripling in the room. ‘You can’t prove nothing. "Now, step this way, Mr. .
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