She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. Burn your palette and your easel. “I’m sorry. "But to drag this innocent child into the muck! With her head full of book nonsense—love stories and fairy stories! Have you any idea of the tragedy she is bound to stumble upon some day? I don't care about you.
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