"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. He sees men all defiled by coarse thoughts, coarse ways of living cruelties. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America.
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