She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. He reached for her and she stroked his head soothingly as his mother had done a few times when he had suffered bad fevers. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. "I knew his poor mother, and for her sake I'll not see this done," cried John Dump.
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