Morel, in the same biting tones. "It seems to me
you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor me, nor
anyone now for you."
"What nonsense, mother--you know I don't love her--I--I tell you I DON'T
love her--she doesn't even walk with my arm, because I don't want her
to."
"Then why do you fly to her so often?"
"I DO like to talk to her--I never said I didn't. But I DON'T love her."
"Is there nobody else to talk to?"
"Not about the things we talk of. There's a lot of things that you're
not interested in, that--"
"What things?"
Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant.
"Why--painting--and books. YOU don't care about Herbert Spencer."
"No," was the sad reply. "And YOU won't at my age."
"Well, but I do now--and Miriam does--"
"And how do you know," Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, "that I shouldn't.
Do you ever try me!"
"But you don't, mother, you know you don't care whether a picture's
decorative or not; you don't care what MANNER it is in."
"How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk to
me about these things, to try?"
"But it's not that that matters to you, mother, you know t's not.
Pages:
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446