"My old man—dead!"
She crept closer, encircling his neck, and her wet cheek close to his dry one.
"He's at peace now, darling—and all your sins are forgiven—like you forgive—his."
His lips were twisting.
"There was no love lost there, girl. God knows there wasn't. There was once nine months we didn't speak. Never could have been less between a father and son. You see he—he hated me from the start, because my mother died hating him—but—dead—that's another matter. Ain't it, girl—ain't it?"
She held her cheek to his so that her tears veered out of their course, zigzagging down to his waistcoat, stroked his hair, placing her rich, moist lips to his eyelids.
"My darling! My darling boy! My own poor darling!"
Sobs rumbled up through him, the terrific sobs that men weep.
"You—married a rotter, Loo—that couldn't even live decent with his—old man. He—died like a dog—alone."
"'Sh-h-h, Charley! Just because he's dead don't mean he was any better while he lived."