"I'll tell you why," he said. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. . Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere.
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