“You were born for great things,” he said huskily. ” “Did it hurt when we did it?” His voice rose, inflamed with worry. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. . . All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been.
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