"Robbie saw it too," Robert's mother said. "It means a lot to a boy to know he's living in an age like this. In some ways Robbie is a man already, Will. A boy born a hundred years ago had to remain a child every waking hour. But not Robbie. Robbie was born into a different kind of world."
Her eyes flashed with stubborn pride. "Robbie has real strength inside of him, Will. He'll make a mark for himself in the world. He'll grow up knowing what atomic energy means. He won't age and dry up before his time. You ought to be proud of him, Will."
Abruptly Durkin pushed back his chair and stood up, his eyes grown sharp again from watching the children playing in the yard. He had avoided looking at his wife, but now he permitted his gaze to linger for an instant on her pinched and sallow features, in a scrutiny so mocking it made her almost physically ill.
Your brats hate me, his eyes mocked. One of these days I'll catch them off guard and give them a lesson in discipline they won't forget in a hurry.
She knew what he was waiting for. He was hoping they'd stop playing just long enough to cast a look toward the kitchen door filled with unmistakable hate. He was hoping to emerge beneath the darkening sky, and see Emily turn away her head, remembering the loving father she had lost, and the harsh, unbending man who had come to take his place.
She knew that he was waiting only for that. He was the kind of man who had to have an excuse to justify his every act of cruelty. Some oddity in his makeup made self-justification as necessary to him as breathing.
With a chill foreboding she watched him turn, and go striding out into the yard.
The children had been kneeling on opposite sides of the doll house, but they got up the instant they saw their stepfather approaching. Robert looked guilty, and his sister's face mirrored his guilt.
"You ate your lunch mighty fast," Durkin said. "What's going on here?"
"Nothing," Robert said.