Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. Still, in spite of her glances and gestures, Mr. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. That’s what I mean. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom.
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