155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. That is an evil place!” She cried. “Where is she?” He would yell even louder until she was sure that people in faraway fishing boats could probably hear him. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. He saw, without any particular regret, that this year he would have to forego the junket; but there would be ample compensation in the study of these queer youngsters. it’s open. Every day in the year you will witness such scenes.
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