My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. She had imagined she had drowned them altogether. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging.
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