He knew dimly that she had "people" who disapproved of her devotion,
and that over and over again, by some new mysterious sacrifice, she had
staved off disaster. He knew that she had been his father's friend all
her life and that his mother and she had loved one another. There was
some bond between these three that could not be broken, and he, too,
was involved--fastened on as an afterthought, as it were, but so firmly
that there could be no escape. Because of it Christine loved him. He
knew that he was not always a very lovable little boy. Even with her
he could be obstinate and cruel--cruel because she was so much less
than his mother had become--and there were times when, with a queer
unchildish power of self-visualization, he saw himself as a small
fair-haired monster growing black and blacker with the dark and evil
spirit that was in him. But Christine never seemed to see him like
that. There was some borrowed halo about his head that blinded her.
It did not matter how bad he was, she had always love and excuses ready
for him. And she was literally all he had in the world.
But even she had not been able to make his birthday a success. Indeed,
ever since that one outstanding day all the celebrations had been
failures, though he had never ceased to look forward to them. For days
before his last birthday he had suspected everyone of secret delicious
plottings on his behalf. He had come down to breakfast shaking with
anticipation.
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