"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. ‘Must be still downstairs. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. “What? She replied, still hazy. " "Well, that's fine.
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