“Now listen. ” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. “I’ve been to hear you lots of times. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. I demand it as a right.
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