I remember small latticed windows against which the ivy tapped.
My father used to come in with his gun slung across his shoulders--he was a very handsome man, Norman, but not kind to either my mother or me.
My mother was then, as she is now, patient, kind, gentle, long-suffering.

I have never heard her complain.

She loved me with an absorbing love.

I was her only comfort.

I did my best to deserve her affection.