"This
absurd, nonsensical idea has gone quite far enough. Let us think no
more about it."
"It isn't absurd and nonsensical!" I cried. And I could hardly say the
words, I was choking up so. "Everybody said you were going to, and I
wrote Mother so; and--"
"You wrote that to your mother?" He did jump from his chair this time.
"Yes; and she was glad."
"Oh, she was!" He sat down sort of limp-like and queer.
"Yes. She said she was glad you'd found an estimable woman to make a
home for you."
"Oh, she did." He said this, too, in that queer, funny, quiet kind of
way.
"Yes." I spoke, decided and firm. I'd begun to think, all of a sudden,
that maybe he didn't appreciate Mother as much as she did him; and
I determined right then and there to make him, if I could. When I
remembered all the lovely things she'd said about him--
"Father," I began; and I spoke this time, even more decided and firm.
"I don't believe you appreciate Mother."
"Eh? What?"
He made _me_ jump this time, he turned around with such a jerk, and
spoke so sharply. But in spite of the jump I still held on to my
subject, firm and decided.
"I say I don't believe you appreciate my mother. You acted right now
as if you didn't believe she meant it when I told you she was glad you
had found an estimable woman to make a home for you.
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