So she tore them both up and put them in the little heating
stove, and lighted a match and set them burning, and watched them
until they withered down to gray ash, and then broke up the ashes
and scattered them amongst the cinders. Marie, you must know, had
learned a good many things, one of which was the unwisdom of
whetting the curiosity of a curious woman.
After that she proceeded to pack a suit case for herself and
Lovin Child, seizing the opportunity while her mother was
visiting a friend in Santa Clara. Once the packing was began,
Marie worked with a feverish intensity of purpose and an
eagerness that was amazing, considering her usual apathy toward
everything in her life as she was living it.
Everything but Lovin Child. Him she loved and gloried in. He
was like Bud--so much like him that Marie could not have loved
him so much if she had managed to hate Bud as she tried sometimes
to hate him. Lovin Child was a husky youngster, and he already
had the promise of being as tall and straight-limbed and square-
shouldered as his father. Deep in his eyes there lurked always a
twinkle, as though he knew a joke that would make you laugh--
if only he dared tell it; a quizzical, secretly amused little
twinkle, as exactly like Bud's as it was possible for a two-year-
old twinkle to be.
Pages:
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156