She saw how overworked he was. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. I am up to the ears in it all— every moment I can spare. Later, she would sew it on.
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