He would not ask where, he would not even wonder. So many years I had spent as a child sifting his bright features for his thoughts, trying to glimpse among them one that bore my name. But he was a harp with only one string, and the note it played was himself. “You have always been the worst of my children,” he said. “Be sure you do not dishonor me.” “I have a better idea. I will do as I please, and when you count your children, leave me out.” His body was rigid with wrath. He looked as though he had swallowed a stone, and it choked him. “Give Mother my greetings,” I said. His jaw bit down and
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