He neither attempted to prevent his nephew's departure, nor to follow him. "First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying effort. "Under the table. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. You know what's what.
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