Nobody wants me; even Petsy, when she died, didn't want me to be near her, and then it began to strike me that perhaps you might want me.
There was no one else, and who should want me if my son did not?
I never gave you the chance before, God forgive me, and now perhaps it is too late.

You have learned to do without me." That was bitterly true; the truth of it stabbed Michael.

On his side, as he knew, he had made no effort either, or if he had they had been but childish efforts, easily repulsed.

He had not troubled about it, and if she was to blame, the blame was his also.

She had been slow to show the mother-instinct, but he had been just as wanting in the tenderness of the son.
He was profoundly touched by this humble timidity, by the sincerity, vague but unquestionable, that lay behind it.
"It's never too late, is it ?" he said, bending down and kissing the thin white hands that held his.