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Updated: May 29, 2025
To live in his high-walled house with its conventional customs, its age-dimmed portraits, its stiff furnishings, and shut-out sunshine, would stifle every cell in brain and lungs, and to marry him would be to marry his house. I hate his house, hate the aloofness, the lack of sympathy it represents. Its proud past I can appreciate, but not its useless present.
It was a hearkening back in the age-dimmed mental fabric of Thor's race to the earliest days of man man, first of all, with the club; man with the spear hardened in fire; man with the flint-tipped arrow; man with the trap and the deadfall, and, lastly, man with the gun. Through all the ages man had been his one and only master.
In his hand he held a paper, and even the age-dimmed eyes of the old man could see the pallid agitation of his face. "My daughter!" he cried, shaking the paper at Haley. "She's sick in Francisco I seen it here! I got to go!" There was no arguing with him, and Old Man Haley knew it.
They turned to each other with inarticulate exclamations, shaking their heads wonderingly, their lips a little apart as they drew long breaths. Two very old women, rubbing their age-dimmed eyes, stood up, tiptoed to the table, and bent above the miraculously fine texture of the flower their worn and wrinkled faces. The petals cast a clear, rosy reflection upon their sallow cheeks.
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