YOU'RE being done--in a sense. Take a hundred-to one
chance, or one to a hundred--what does it matter? You're being Led."
It's odd that I heard this at the time with unutterable contempt, and
now that I recall it--well, I ask myself, what have I got better?
"I wish," said I, becoming for a moment outrageous, "YOU were being Led
to give me some account of my money, uncle."
"Not without a bit of paper to figure on, George, I can't. But you trust
me about that never fear. You trust me."
And in the end I had to.
I think the bankruptcy hit my aunt pretty hard. There was, so far as I
can remember now, a complete cessation of all those cheerful outbreaks
of elasticity, no more skylarking in the shop nor scampering about the
house. But there was no fuss that I saw, and only little signs in her
complexion of the fits of weeping that must have taken her. She didn't
cry at the end, though to me her face with its strain of self-possession
was more pathetic than any weeping. "Well" she said to me as she came
through the shop to the cab, "Here's old orf, George! Orf to Mome number
two! Good-bye!" And she took me in her arms and kissed me and pressed me
to her.
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