"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. “Really!” said Mr. Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet.
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