At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated. This key," he added, taking it from the boy, "was purloined from me by your father, Jack. He was not a sailor. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder.
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