"Yes," dimly.
His voice sounded unnatural.
"Since the … fire … I've been doing some thinking, some reading…."
"Yes."
"I've been going about … studying the city…."
"Yes."
"Now I want you to understand, mother…. I want to tell you of … It's—well, I want to do something with my money, my life…." And his voice broke, in spite of himself.
His mother felt as if she were smothering. But she waited, and he went on:
"For those dead girls, mother…." and sharply came a dry sob. "And for all the toilers. Oh, but can you understand?"
There was a silence. Then she looked at him from her youthful, brilliant eyes, and saw only an overgrown, rather ignorant boy. This gave her strength, and, though it was painful, she began speaking: