” He said. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. They were just nice. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. Some doting parent had taught him well. She had begun alone. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste.
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