So I didn't quite hear the next things that Father said.
But when I did notice, I found he was still talking--and it was about Mother, and him, and their marriage, and their first days at the old house.

I knew it was that, even if he did mix it all up about the spirit of youth beating its wings against the bars.

And over and over again he kept repeating that it was his fault, it was his fault; and if he could only live it over again he'd do differently.
And right there and then it came to me that Mother said it was her fault, too; and that if only she could live it over again, _she'd_ do differently.

And here was Father saying the same thing.

And all of a sudden I thought, well, why can't they try it over again, if they both want to, and if each says it, was their--no, his, no, hers--well, his and her fault.