It troubled him already, like a vague, indefinite pain.
He did not even apologize.
"I suppose I should have come back sooner or later. But I didn't have
the chance. My father died that night--unexpectedly." He brushed aside
her low interjection.
"Oh, I was jolly glad. But after that we had to clear out. There was no
money at all."
"But you lived in a big house. Your father was a great doctor."
"I was a great liar," he retorted impatiently. "I suppose I wanted to
impress you. Perhaps he was a great doctor. Anyhow, he never did any
work. There was a bailiff in the house when he died and a pile of bills.
And not much else."
"What happened, then? Did you go with your stepmother? I remember how
you hated her! You wouldn't admit that she was a mother of any sort."
"No. I don't know what became of her. I never saw her again after that
night. I think she went to live with her own people. Christine took
care of me."
"I don't remember Christine. I don't think you ever told me about her."
"I wouldn't have known how to explain. I don't know now. She was a sort
of friend--my father's and mother's friend. There was an understanding
between her and my mother--a promise--I don't know what. So she took me
away with her. Not that she had any money, either. We went to live in
two rooms in the suburbs, and she worked for us both. She had never
worked before--not for money--and she wasn't young. But she did it.
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