"Mama, mama, what are you saying? I'm not blaming you, sweetheart. I
blame him--Dr. Heyman--for prescribing it in the beginning. I know your
fight. How brave it is. Even when I'm crossest with you, I realize.
Alma's fighting with you, dearest, every inch of the way until--you're
cured! And then--maybe--some day--anything you want! But not now. Mama,
you wouldn't marry Louis Latz now!"
"I would. He's my cure. A good home with a good man and money enough to
travel and forget myself. Alma, Mama knows she's not an angel--sometimes
when she thinks what she's put her little girl through this last year,
she just wants to go out on the hill-top where she caught the neuralgia
and lay down beside that grave out there and--"
"Mama, don't talk like that!"
"But now's my chance, Alma, to get well. I've too much worry in this big
hotel trying to keep up big expenses on little money and--"
"I know it, mama. That's why I'm so in favor of finding ourselves a
sweet, tiny little apartment with kitch--"
"No! Your father died with the world thinking him a rich man and it will
never find out from me that he wasn't. I won't be the one to humiliate
his memory--a man who enjoyed keeping up appearances the way he did. Oh,
Alma, Alma, I'm going to get well now. I promise.
Pages:
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419