“It was perhaps my fault. . "What the devil are you about! Will you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?" "Not if I can help it," returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to regain his feet. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered.
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