A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. “Dare!” she said. “I don’t want you to do it, to go on talking to me. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters.
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