The mother locked her hands about the chair-arms. She sat looking down at the bare brick floor of the room, and at Anne’s two feet, slim and imperious, planted just before her in an attitude of challenge, of resistance. She did not dare to raise her eyes higher. “I don’t know him!” she repeated to herself.
“Mother, answer me—you’ve got to answer me!” The girl’s low-pitched voice had grown shrill; her swaying tall white presence seemed to disengage some fiery fluid. Kate Clephane suddenly recalled the baby Anne’s lightning-flashes of rage, and understood what reserves of violence still underlay her daughter’s calm exterior.
“How can I answer? I know what you’re suffering—but I can’t pretend to think that what you propose would make any difference.”
“You don’t think it was the money?”
Kate Clephane drew a deep breath, and clasped the chair-arms tighter. “No.”
“What was it, then?” Anne had once more sunk on her knees beside her mother. “I can’t bear not to know. I can’t bear it an hour longer,” she gasped out.
“It’s hard, dear ... I know how hard....” Kate put her arms about the shuddering body.
“What shall I do, mother? I’ve written, and he doesn’t answer. I’ve written three times. And yet I know—”
“You know?”
“He did love me, mother.”