"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. I'll engage to get the job done by six. Hang the wench! Roding was right. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father.
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