Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to.
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