Her mother left her to me, a little two-year-old thing, a clinging little creature that would snug in my arms and go to sleep, whether I was drunk or sober.

I killed her mother--sent her to the better country before her time.

I didn't lay my hand to her; I wasn't bad enough for that.
But my ways took the pink out of her cheeks, and made her pine away and just go out of my sight like the wake of a passing ship.

Where she had been, there she was not.

I loved her, boy, and these eyes cried; these great hands would have willingly been worn to the bone with hard work, if that could have restored her life.