But the mind, at such a point as I was then, makes strange plunges out of its own orbit.
"And she died when you were little ?" "Yes, when I was scarcely twelve years old." "A woman ought to be very good when it makes so much difference to her children.

Richard, did my uncle ever tell you anything about my mother--what sort of a woman she was, and whether I am like her ?" "He never said a great deal to me about it," Richard answered, not looking at me as he talked.

"He thinks you are like her, very strikingly, I believe." "Think! I haven't even a scrap of a picture of her, and no one has ever talked to me about her.

All I have are some old yellow letters to my father, written before I was born.

I think she loved my father very much.