And she knew that she and her
mother were no longer at ease with each other. This pained her, and
the pain was beginning to increase. Sometimes she felt as if her
mother disliked something in her, and did not choose to say so, and
was irritated by the silence that she kept. But what could it be? She
searched among her doings carefully. Had she failed in anything?
Certainly she had not been lacking in love. And her knowledge of that
seemed simply to exclude any possibility of serious shortcomings. And
her mother?
Vere remembered how her mother had once longed to have a son, how she
had felt certain she was going to have a son. Could it be that? Could
her mother be dogged by that disappointment? She felt chilled to the
heart at that idea. Her warm nature protested against it. The love she
gave to her mother was so complete that it had always assumed the
completeness of that which it was given in return. But it might be so,
Vere supposed. It was possible. She pondered over this deeply, and
when she was with her mother watched for signs that might confirm or
dispel her fears.
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