"Thank you very much,
Mrs. Smith . . . No, we've not heard from Martin now for three
weeks. Careless boy! I always write myself every week so that he may
have at any rate one little word from home . . ."
She had never felt that she had any real share in his life; he had
always belonged to his father; nor was she a woman who cared about
children. Martin had long ago become to her simply an opportunity
for further decoration. Since his return it had been quite another
affair. In one moment she had seen her power over her husband
shrivel and disappear. Martin was home again. Martin must be here,
Martin must be there; Martin must see this, Martin must do this. She
had seen before in earlier days the force of her husband's passion
when it was roused. There was something now in his reception of
their son that terrified her. She had at once perceived that Amy was
as deeply moved as she. The girl, plain, awkward, silent, morose,
had always adored her father, but she had never known how to
approach him. She was not clever, she had not been able to enter
into his life although she would have done anything that he desired
of her.
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