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In younger days, she had no use for her father's visitors and their prattle, and did not even feign interest, but now she watches each of them as they arrive. They all have some sort of ailment or litany. Some are merely figures and shadows from Old Hawk's past, paying respects as you must pay respects to your aging face every morning. That is the tragedy of it - some friendships and meetings are destined to last a short time, and when effort is made to stretch them out, it is like watching a waterfall dry out to a pitiful trickle. Others have business proposals: That new road will be cleared soon, this presents a business opportunity. . It's really quite unreasonable. The provincial government must be made aware. . Or news from other regions: The freedom fighters in the east have gained support . if they ever come to this 
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backwater town . And throughout, Old Hawk nods, makes noises of agreement, tireless in his accommodation, until they leave, and he turns to the house, a bit more shrunken than he had been before the visit. Why? she is bursting to ask him. Who cares about these silly people? Every moment spent with them is another moment lost from your own life. She knows her appearance and behavior must be improper, even when she sits completely still at the dinner table. It has been her strength and her weakness, her inability to hide her feelings. Mother, on the other hand, can prattle on about the local gossip at the marketplace, so-and-so has taken on a new mistress, and I heard this young master has inherited a small fortune from . Nothing will ever agitate her  |
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