He was wary of her, which meant that perhaps they had found one or many of the bodies that she thought she had hidden so well. Still, one never could tell. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. Obey my orders, and you've nothing to fear. Suppose our proper place is a shrine.
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