"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. Tell him the truth, Annabel. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see.
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