Robert Stonehouse's mother disappeared, and they said she was dead. But late at night the door to his room would open, and there his mother would stand, stern and wonderful, on the threshold of his darkened room -- until his adoration became an agony and he lay with his face hidden in his arms, waiting for the touch of her hand that never came...
father, Christine might hate him, though he knew she didn't, but Edith had no right. She was an outsider--a bounder----
"He is faithful to his ideal," Christine answered. "He is always looking for it and thinking he has found it. And except for Constance he has always been mistaken."
"I wasn't thinking of you," Christine explained. "There have been so many of them--and all so terribly expensive--never cheap or common----"
They were dragging the carpet out into the landing. Their voices sounded louder and more distinct.
"I could bear almost everything but his temper," Edith persisted breathlessly. "He's like a madman----"
"He's ill--sometimes I think he's very ill----"
"Oh, you've always got an excuse for him, Christine. You never see him as he really is. I can't think why you didn't marry him yourself. I'm sure he asked you. Jim couldn't be alone with a woman ten minutes without proposing. And everyone knows how fond you are of him and of that tire
A beautiful, tragic romance that examines the depth of human nature. Truly well developed characters, and a story that will make you think.
Note: This is not anywhere close to the horror story the description will make you think it is. The main character is haunted by the memory of his parents, by the shadow of their achievements and failures, but it is hardly a ghost story.
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