They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. He would go there.
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