She nuzzled his chest and he breathed deeply of the scent of her Finesse conditioner. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. “I am not in need of any. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep.
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