They were walking together down the rutted road, and Marche glanced around at him.
"What were you going to say about your father, Jim?"
"Nothing." Then truth jogged his arm. "I mean I was only going to say that father and mother and all of us lived there."
"In New York?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is your—your mother living?"
"No, sir."
"I think I saw her picture in the sitting room," he said gently. "She
must have been everything a mother should be."
"Yes, sir."