’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. "But if it is your mother, send her about her business. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. “Will he die?” she asked.
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