" "Well," replied her son; "and you spurn the proposal. She heard him crash against it, and turned the key in the lock. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray. “No, those are my brother’s dog tags. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will.
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