” He nodded twice, with his eyes on the fire, as though that was a formal statement. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Kevin Chen, Martin’s father, was equally stately, his dark brown eyes bright with the fire of extreme intelligence.
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