"Carrie—now—now—what is past is past; we must look to the present now."
"Papa dear—you look so changed and yet so—natural—"
There was an air of indescribable prosperity that rose off Mr. Becker, in the nondescript but excellent quality of the gray suiting, the polished, square-toed, custom-made shoes, the little linen string of necktie, one for each day, the kind, despite family suasion, he had always worn. But it was difficult for him to speak now because he was always blinking and looking off.
"You've given us a great sorrow to bear, Lilly," he said, in a tone of rehearsed reproach. "We tried to be thankful for our health and—bear our—"
"There he goes on health again at a time like this. I'm a broken woman. Years! Years of explaining lies to the community. Years of holding up our heads over an opera singer that nobody ever hears about and that never came home to her folks. Years of feeling them laugh behind our backs—your father and husband trying to hold up their heads in business under the lie. What have I ever done, I've asked myself all these years—to deserve it? I've never harmed anyone. I've—"
"Carrie—please."
"Where do you live? How do you live? A stranger to my own child. Worse than a stranger!"
"I've a well-paid position with a producing firm, mamma, and I live nicely. You shall see, dear."
"Producing? Producing what? Trouble? A position! For that she threw away her life. Her big talk of prima donna, and we find her in a position. The girl that was going to set the world on fire. That's why we looked our eyes out all these years for her name in the paper, only to find her in a position! Ben, what have we ever done to deserve it? Albert, I'm her mother, but my heart bleeds for you—"
He was tugging at his bag straps, industriously keeping his head averted, but the red up in his ears.