"I am your father, and I can't even control you anymore!"
Facing Old Sir Simmons, Arnold Simmons stood like a Poplar sapling on parched soil, erect and unyielding, forever unbent.
Yet this very disposition was what Old Sir Simmons hated the most.
Unlike a member of the Simmons Family, yet the most like one.
"If you have nothing else, I'll be going back first," Arnold's demeanor was neither servile nor overbearing, his eyes and brows mostly indifferent.
As if he didn't care about anything at all.
Old Sir Simmons, infuriated, slammed the desk, a few drops of hot tea splashed out, wetting the fine rice paper on the table, "Is this the way you talk to your own father!"
He looked at the youth before him, whose eyebrows and eyes bore some resemblance to his younger self, yet he felt no affection.
Even with a blood connection, they seemed like enemies.
