"That's ridiculous!"
"Sure it's ridiculous. But it is that sort of ridiculous thing that has caused more war and suffering than perhaps any other single thing. William Wrightwood lacks a son. He has—like Napoleon—married and divorced three women because they could not give him a son. He married the fourth because she already had a son. Then he killed her because she could not produce a duplicate for him."
"Oh Steve—that's hard to believe!"
Steve grunted. "It was not murder—legally," he said bitterly. "But bitterness and recrimination are just as deadly as the knife or the bullet."
"But how about his foster son?"
"Wrightwood tried everything he could to make a real son of him."
"Well, that's an admirable trait."
"Like hell," gritted Steve. "It is all right to accept a fatherless child and bring it up as your own. But no man should try to do the impossible. Wrightwood tried to make a natural son out of an adopted son. It could not work; he cramped the natural personality of the son, forced the child to follow the footsteps of what Wrightwood thought a son of his would follow. So instead of following, the son revolted as soon as he could and went his own way in direct opposition. Two lives crudded up by the overwhelming drive of one man."
"You know a lot of him."
"I should," he said simply. "I'm the son."