“You’re. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow. "Give me the child, or—" As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated.
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