When the devil drove my father to hand me over--innocent child as I was--to a man like Robert Waldeaux, he killed in me the capacity for that kind of love.

It is not in me." She turned her strenuous face to the sea and was silent.
"It is not in me," she repeated after a while.

"I have but one feeling, and that is for my boy.

It is growing on me absurdly, too." She laughed nervously.

"I used to be conscious of other people in the world, but now, if I see a boy or man, I see only what George was or will be at his age; if I read a book, it only suggests what George will say of it.