The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. I am far too much the gentleman. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. "My father!" she whispered.
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