I was always told my mother died the day I was born. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. The unequal battle went on. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house. We have lived under the same roof, but our ways seem to have lain wide apart.
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