Yes, she almost cried aloud in the dark room. "Give me Falk and I will
leave the other. Give me my own son. That's my right--every mother's
right. If I am refused it, it is just that I should take what I can get
instead."
"Give him to me! Give him to me!" One thing at least was certain. She
could never return to the old lethargy. That first meeting with Morris had
fired her into life. She could not go back and she was glad that she could
not....
She stopped in the middle of the room to listen. The hall-door closed
softly; suddenly the line of light below the door vanished. Some one had
turned down the hall-lamp. She went to the drawing-room door, opened it,
looked out, crying softly:
"Falk! Falk!"
"Yes, mother." He came across to her. He was holding a lighted candle in
his hand. "Are you still up?"
"Yes, it isn't very late. Barely eleven. Come into the drawing-room."
They went back into the room. He closed the door behind him, then put the
candle down on to a small round table; they sat in the candle-light, one
on either side of the table.
He looked at her and thought how small and fragile she looked and how
little, anyway, she meant to him.
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