To let that child grow up thinking that dancing and motoring was all of life, and-- But Mother was speaking again.
"Eunice--yes.

You mean that you never would make her go through what you went through when you were her age." "Why, Mother, I--I--" And then I stopped again.

And I was so angry and indignant with myself because I had to stop, when there were so many, many things that I wanted to say, if only my dry lips could articulate the words.
Mother drew her breath in with a little catch.

She had grown rather white.
"I wonder if you remember--if you ever think of--your childhood," she said.
"Why, yes, of--of course--sometimes." It was my turn to stammer.

I was thinking of that diary that I had just read--and added to.
Mother drew in her breath again, this time with a catch that was almost a sob.