The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. “Tell me,” he said; “speak to me. Give up your lonely hours of work here. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. Don't lay it all to the boy. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. \"Josh Durkin?\" Lucy whispered loudly. But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him.
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