“You are not my mother,” said I.
“Not your mother, dear?—no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool—and you just now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip.”
“After all, I don’t know that you are not my mother.”
“Don’t you, dear? I’m glad of it; I wish you would make it out.”
“How shall I make it out? who can speak from his own knowledge as to the circumstances of his birth? Besides, before attempting to establish our relationship, it would be necessary to prove that such people exist.”
“What people, dear?”
“You and I.”
“Lord, child, you are mad; that book has made you so.”
“Don’t abuse it,” said I; “the book is an excellent one, that is, provided it exists.”
“I wish it did not,” said the old woman; “but it sha’n’t long; I’ll burn it, or fling it into the river—the voices at night tell me to do so.”