He looked down at me with quite a gentle expression.
“What is it my little Rachel wants?”
“Father, have you got anywhere a picture of my mother?”
He dropped my hands as though they hurt him.
“You want it?” he said.
“I should love to have it.”
“You have missed your mother’s care?”
“Yes.”
“If I—” He stopped.
“Why do you stop?” I said. “You are just like Miss Donnithorne. She is always beginning sentences and stopping. But oh! please,”—for he seemed to be going off into one of his Demosthenes or Sophocles monologues—“please, if you have a picture of my mother, give it to me.”