When he turned he found that Anthony had risen--a slender, erect figure.

His voice was as quiet as his anger, but an inward quality made it as thrilling as the hoarse boom of his father.
"On that point I stick.

I must know something about her." "Must ?" "In spite of your anger.

That locked room is yours; this house and everything in it is yours; but my mother--she was as much mine as yours, and I'll hear more about her--who she was, what she looked like, where she lived--" The sharply indrawn breath of John Woodbury cut him short.
"She died in giving birth to you, Anthony." "Dear God! She died for me ?" And in the silence which came over the two men it seemed as if another presence were in the room.

John Woodbury stood at the fire-place with bowed head, and Anthony shaded his eyes and stared at the floor until he caught a glimpse of the other and went gently to him.
He said: "I'm sorrier than a lot of words could tell you.