" "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. Blood and bone, body and spirit, she is selfish through and through. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. They sucked face and felt each other up, or something. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. She spoke slowly. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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