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Updated: May 19, 2025
This strange, bearded, greyish-haired brother of hers had come very often during the past half-year to the little book-shop, and the widow's home above it, his misshapen handbag full of papers, his heart full of rage, hope, grief, ambition, disgust, confidence everything but despair. It was true, it had never been quite real to her.
At the first meal on the ocean-going steamship out of St. Michaels, a waiter, greyish-haired, pain-ravaged of face, scurvy-twisted of body, served him. Old Tarwater was compelled to look him over twice in order to make certain he was Charles Crayton. "Got it bad, eh, son?" Tarwater queried. "Just my luck," the other complained, after recognition and greeting.
"My dear father " stammered the girl, without raising her eyes. "Oh, so thou dost want thy dear father to choose for thee, eh?" inquired Master Jock, interpreting her desire. "Where is the girl's father, then?" A greyish-haired man lurched forward, holding his cap in his hand. "Come, sirrah! look sharp and choose your daughter a husband." The boor seemed inclined, however, to take his time.
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