He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. No one had the resources or the inclination to rebuild them. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. He hated himself a little for it. It is not at all what I expected either. The true creative mind is always returning to battle; defeats are only temporary setbacks. You don't know what you have got; I do. He had a peculiar way of stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving; put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape.
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