For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. "Mrs. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. She described it so vividly. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. ‘I think you’ve gone stark, staring crazy. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct.
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