“What do you mean?” Lucy asked. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. The next door neighbor's dog, chained outside, let out a single bark, but was silent as soon as she turned in that direction, instinctively afraid. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act.
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