“Don’t you, dear? I’m glad of it; I wish you would make it out.”
“How should 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 shan’t long; I’ll burn it, or fling it into the river—the voices at night tell me to do so.”
“Tell the voices,” said I, “that they talk nonsense; the book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?”
“All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out.”
“Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything at all.”