Jimmy presently returned from the garage, removed his glove, and laid his hand upon the swollen knuckles.
“Jimmy, don’t.”
“I’m not hurting you, mother. I just want you to know that I appreciate something. This is the first time you have asked Gratia to come here.”
“Jimmy,” said his mother in her even low tone, “I know what you want. You shall have her, if I can manage it.”
Jimmy’s fine mask of a face took on lines of asperity.
“The less managing the better.”
“That’s a pleasant thing to say to me after thanking me for managing this much.”
“I don’t imagine she has any use for me.”
He drew from his pocket a letter, opened it, and laid it lightly on his mother’s hand.
Dear Sir: