"My portrait!" echoed Jack. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. She put her head out of the window. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. There is a railroad. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love.
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