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INTERLUDE ONE |
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The Family
The boy stood at the gate, hearing the cold snap of the lock inside the door and staring at the pleasant house of his childhood. The early morning sunlight gleamed on the white clapboard walls and there, among the little gray railroad cotĀtages of Frenchman Street, his old home looked very fine. In his mind it became a mansion with fluted columns and a noble broad gallery, a mansion that hid the real storey-and-a-half house with its narrow porch and its small square columns, For young Ferdinand Morton the door had closed upon the
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