She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. "I am your most unhappy son.
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