I hate what I am. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. Manning’s handwriting, and opened his letter and read some lines before its import appeared. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing.
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