Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. And every day's experience proves that I was right. ‘Rather thought I’d have to disarm you when you heard of it. She said that your mother was only fifteen when she went to live with them.
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