“Bit thick on the old man, isn’t it?” said Roddy, who had developed a bluff, straightforward style in the motor shop. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. Hear me then, now, before I take one step to establish my origin, or secure my rights. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring.
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