Stanley wanted to object strongly, but as he could not immediately think how to put it, he contented himself with a grunt, and the motion was carried. He was in the house with his mother. Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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