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 was, beyond doubt, some logic in this reasoning, but it did not appeal to me. I could not dispel from my mind the memory of that horrible summer of perplexity and its obvious cause. All I could remember was that a college education had thrown me into the cloak and suit business, which was not, I felt certain, my predestined field. I determined to spare my son, if possible, a repetition of this experience. Aware of my intentions, my wife took advantage of my emotional weakness and made me promise, over her deathbed, that I would send you to college. I gave her the promise. She died, and I closed her eyes.

During the relation of this remarkable history. George Prewett had several times permitted his gaze to wander about the room, but now he fastened his eyes securely on his son.

The fact that you were not a girl did not endear you in my eyes; the further fact that you had caused the death of your mother made it impossible for me to entertain the thought of seeing you. The reflection that she had christened you Harold made the alienation complete. I arranged at once for your care. You were brought up first by a wet-nurse, later by my sister, who, amply rewarded for her skill in designing the Ninon de Lenclos cloak, had retired to a life of peace in the country. I have kept my promise. You have been sent to college. And, latterly, I have grown less bitter. After all, it is not your fault that you are a boy, not your fault