He does not – cannot – understand the Hollow. No one who has not spent night after night after night under its roof can hope to fathom this place. The Mama understands, only too well. But not half so well as I. 13 February I barely remember Father, yet I am certain the portrait which hangs in the Summer Room, painted from his death mask, is not a good likeness. I have read every word he ever set down, but still he is a stranger. The Mama has devoted her life – and mine! – to his sacred memory, but she despises him. His first great sin was dying so carelessly. His second, more unforgivable lapse was not to manifest thereafter. The parade of mediums and sensitives and psychics and charlatans who have passed through the Hollow bear witness to the Mama’s desperate need that Father linger here as a ghost. These people, without fail, commence by stating that they sense his presence, that they are sure they can coax him out of his shadows of concealment with their especial – expensive – services.
