She always maintains that she got the better of him--no doubt he was left with a different impression.

Well--my mother--most people thought her mad--perhaps she was--but then somehow--I loved her!" He was still smiling, but at the last words a charming vibration crept into the words, and his eyes sought her with a young open demand for sympathy.
"Is that so rare ?" she asked him, half laughing--instinctively defending her own feeling lest it should be snatched from her by any make-believe.
"Yes--as we loved each other--it is rare.

My father died when I was ten.
She would not send me to school, and I was always in her pocket--I shared all her interests.

She was a wild woman--but she _lived_, as not one person in twenty lives." Then he sighed.

Marcella was too shy to imitate his readiness to ask questions.