“Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. “No!” “Don’t try and stop me. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. Go, and let him in. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. They’re in grad school and they both live in New York.
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