’ His features relaxed again and he grinned. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. You must think it over. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. And if you mean that he may have reconciled himself with his own father, you waste your breath.
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