Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. He bullied frankly. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. She felt his whole mind sounding in ecstasy.
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