She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. It's precisely what such a simpleton would do. She did not remember him, but he said that he had introduced himself to her when she was visiting the butcher's family. So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. I did not lay any traps for her. “I hope you’re satisfied. ” “It is hard to be distant from your own mother.
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