Before I knew the truth, I felt the shadow of
secrecy in your life. When you talked most, I felt you most
secretive, and the feeling slowly closed the door upon all frankness
and sympathy and open speech between us. I was always shy and self-
conscious and self-centred, and thought little of myself; and I
needed deep love and confidence and encouragement to give out what
was in me. I gave nothing out, nothing to you that you wanted, or
sought for, or needed. You were complete, self-contained. Harry,
my beloved babe Harry, helped at first; but, as the years went on,
he too began to despise me for my little intellect and slow
intelligence, and he grew to be like you in all things--and
secretive also, though I tried so hard to be to him what a mother
should be. Oh, Bobby, Bobby--I used to call you that in the days
before we were married, and I will call you that now when all is
over and done--why did you not tell me all? Why did you not tell me
that my boy, my baby Harry, was not your only child, that there had
been another wife, and that your eldest son was alive?
"I know all.
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