We men are like children. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. Mind, when we were all growed up, it were different. Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that.
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