"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. ‘Is it worth it?’ he asked at last. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. “My dear sweet Lucia. . But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. " "What's that?" "Think it over," said McClintock, grimly. Let me say it to you. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat.
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