Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. If our young person hadn’t had the nurse part cut out, eh? She might have known more and done less. I don’t think any surroundings could throw a shadow on you. He could not quite make her out; a new type. But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that. It’s not you—not a bit. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. “She is living there now,” she remarked. ‘You will have to prove it, you know,’ Gerald said quietly. You have grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out.
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