"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. If so, do not hesitate to tell me. Birthdays just ain’t the same once you get old kiddo.
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