But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. A queer nut. The Dawn Pearl; how well they had named her! The pearl without price—his and not his! He took her arm and drew it under his; and together they went down the veranda steps. She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set.
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