It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. “We’re here to take your foster daughter down to the station to ask her a few questions sir. I should know you—in Heaven or Hell. “Everybody seems to have it now. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter.
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