And that was why she was reading to me now. Then she said
again that she thought we owed it to Father, when he'd been so good to
let me stay.
It seems so funny to hear her talk such a lot about Father as she
does, when before she never used to mention him--only to say how
afraid she was that I would love him better than I did her, and to
make me say over and over again that I didn't. And I said so one day
to her--I mean, I said I thought it was funny, the way she talked now.
She colored up and bit her lip, and gave a queer little laugh. Then
she grew very sober and grave, and said:
"I know, dear. Perhaps I am talking more than I used to. But, you see,
I've been thinking quite a lot, and I--I've learned some things. And
now, since your father has been so kind and generous in giving you up
to me so much of his time, I--I've grown ashamed; and I'm trying to
make you forget what I said--about your loving me more than him. That
wasn't right, dear. Mother was wrong. She shouldn't try to influence
you against your father. He is a good man; and there are none too many
good men in the world--No, no, I won't say that," she broke off.
But she'd already said it, and, of course, I knew she was thinking of
the violinist. I'm no child.
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