It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals.
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