Kenny
“You needn’t repeat it,” said Brian with a flash of his quiet eyes. “This time, Kenny, I mean to stay disinherited.”
Kennicott O’Neill stared at his son and gasped. The note of permanency in the chronic rite of disinheritance was startling. So was something in the set of Brian’s chin and the flush of anger burning steadily beneath the dark of his skin. Moreover, his eyes, warmly Irish like his father’s, and ordinarily humorous and kind, remained unflinchingly aggressive.
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