“I am afraid, Aunt.”
“Why, my child?”
“I am afraid to leave you.”
“Yes, I know.”
How much did she know, I wondered? What did she suspect? Philibert had not written to me, of course. She must have noticed. She must know a good deal.
“You have your little girl, Jane. Think of her.”
“I do. She’s a prim little thing, not a bit like me.”
“Promise me to love your child, to love her enough.”
“Enough for what, dear?”
“Just enough; you’ll find out how much that is.”