What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. “I had to.
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