’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. But that possibility had been anticipated. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Spurling. Maggot. ‘Who is that man? What has he to do with you? No, don’t tell me. To Breanna for believing in this project at every step.
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