It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. “Is Larry already in bed?” Cathy nodded yes. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. Little by little, she stopped hating him.
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