“He wants to get away from us,” she thought, “and he will.” She felt overcome by a mortal fatigue. “He simply wants to spring out of his box into the world.” With a flippant and worldly gesture she described a flight through the air. Then abruptly she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. Andrew watched her thin shoulders shaking inside her woollen dress. When his mother cried he felt as though his face were made of marble. He could not accept the weeping as a part of her personality. It did not appear to be the natural climax of a mood. Instead it seemed to descend upon her from somewhere far away, as if she were giving voice to the crying of a child in some distant place. For it was the crying of a creature many years younger than she, a disgrace for which he felt responsible, since it was usually because of him that she cried. There was nothing he could say to console her because she was right. He wanted to go away, and there was nothing else he wanted at all.
