Explore "Memoirs of a Midget" by Walter de la Mare on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Was there suspicion in the face of Mrs. Bowater that evening? Our usual familiar talk dwindled to a few words this suppertime. The old conflict was raging in my mind -- hatred of my deceit, horror at betraying an accomplice, and longing for the solemn quiet and solitude of the dark. I crushed my doubtings down and cast a dismal, hostile look at the long face, so yellow of skin and sombre in expression. When would she be gone and leave me in peace? The packed little parlour hung stagnant in the candlelight. It seemed impossible that Mrs. Bowater could not hear the thoughts in my mind. Apparently not. She tidied up my few belongings, which, contrary to my usual neat habits, I had left scattered over the table. She bade me good night; but paused in the doorway to look back at me. But what intimacy she had meant to share with me was put aside. "Good night, miss," she repeated; "and I'm sure, God bless you. " It was the dark, quiet look that whelmed over me. I gazed mutely, without response, and the silence was broken by a clear voice like that of a cautious mockingbird out of a wood.
It called softly on two honeyed notes, "Mo -- ther!"