I can. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. “Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. “I think,” he said, “that I am right. But he was not a father one could make much of. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. She smiled at the sight of him, and thereat his radiation increased.
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