He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. "Give me the child, or—" As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. "Go to your own room, woman, directly, or I'll make you!" "Make me!" echoed Mrs. He seemed to possess a penetration and cunning beyond his years—to hide a man's judgment under a boy's mask. 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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