Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. Spurling has induced him to sit down again. ‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly.
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