His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. ‘Long enough for you to see Frith for me. Wood.
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