He knew that she was
slowly drawing apart; already there was a divorce between their
minds, and he tortured himself in uncertainty as to how far he
retained her affections. A word of tenderness, a caress, no
longer met with response from her; her softest mood was that of
mere comradeship. All the warmth of her nature was expended upon
the child; Reardon learnt how easy it is for a mother to forget
that both parents have a share in her offspring.
He was beginning to dislike the child. But for Willie's existence
Amy would still love him with undivided heart; not, perhaps, so
passionately as once, but still with lover's love. And Amy
understoed --or, at all events, remarked--this change in him.
She was aware that he seldom asked a question about Willie, and
that he listened with indifference when she spoke of the little
fellow's progress. In part offended, she was also in part
pleased.
But for the child, mere poverty, he said to himself, should never
have sundered them. In the strength of his passion he could have
overcome all her disappointments; and, indeed, but for that new
care, he would most likely never have fallen to this extremity of
helplessness.
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