“You may think you do, but you don't. You can thank God for your ignorance.”
“Maybe I ain't so ignorant.”
I looked at him. He was looking me straight in the eye.
“What do you know?” I asked, slowly.
“I know, for one thing, that your name ain't Paine.”
I could not answer. I am not certain whether I attempted to speak or move. I do remember that the pressure of his hand on my knee tightened.
“It's all right, Ros,” he said, earnestly. “Nobody knows but me, and nobody ever shall know if I can help it.”
“How—how much do you know?” I stammered.
“Why, pretty much all, I guess. I've known ever since your mother was taken sick. Some things I read in the paper, and the pictures of—of your father, put me on, and afterwards I got more certain of it. But it's all right. Nobody but me knows or shall know.”
I leaned my head on my hand. He patted my knee, gently.