" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. “I’m not in the mood right this instant. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. " "You may rest assured he does not," rejoined Kneebone, emphatically, "but I am at a loss to understand in what way your father proposes to assist him.
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