Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. She elected to go to prison. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her.
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