"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. "Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!" Winifred made no answer. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption. He stood up abruptly and went to the window. He has three days to live. Ruth will be a gold mine for a man of your peculiar bent. If only one might open the shutters and let in the light.
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