Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. "Your son," answered the boy. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. ‘What would you? The nuns they would not believe me, and so it was not possible for me to stay. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms.
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