behind his glasses, his mouth pursed up with the endeavor of his employment. . .
"Hireling Liar," I muttered, for was not he also part of the system, part of the scheme of robbery that made wages serfs of Parload and me?—though his share in the proceedings was certainly small.
"Hireling Liar," said I, standing in the darkness, outside even his faint glow of traveled culture. . .
My mother let me in.
She looked at me, mutely, because she knew there was something wrong and that it was no use for her to ask what.
"Good night, mummy," said I, and kissed her a little roughly, and lit and took my candle and went off at once up the staircase to bed, not looking back at her.
"I've kept some supper for you, dear."
"Don't want any supper."
"But, dearie—"
"Good night, mother," and I went up and slammed my door upon her, blew out my candle, and lay down at once upon my bed, lay there a long time before I got up to undress.
There were times when that dumb beseeching of my mother's face irritated me unspeakably. It did so that night. I felt I had to struggle against it, that I could not exist if I gave way to its pleadings, and it hurt me and divided me
