A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Like appendicitis. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. It’s to do with adolescence. "It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile.
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