“What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. Teenage boys never change, she thought to herself. By and by she heard the screen door. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments.
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