Coolly and gingerly, she kissed it as it stood at its hard angle from his body. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. "Bring him back with you. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. I’m not Gerald, remember. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation.
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