"It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. “I believe that he would bore me. I think that WAS decision. She had killed him. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. They are born idiots, incurably insane. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. Brendon. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron.
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