" "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. “Well?” she said. ‘Nothing. Crocodile Tears. 1 through 1. “I wish you would not do it. The word handsome was a little beyond her grasp. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. It did not take a mind reader to glean that she had suddenly gained the boy’s obsessive attention. “The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter.
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