"You can't mean it, Dad."
"I do mean it. I--am a lonely man, Derry. A disappointed man. My
wife is dead. My son is a slacker--"
It was only the maudlin drivel of a man not responsible for what he was
saying. But Derry had had enough. He took a step forward and stood at
the foot of the bed. "I wouldn't go any farther if I were you, Dad.
I've not been a slacker. I have never been a slacker. I am not a
coward. I have never been a coward. I am going to tell you right now
why I am not in France. Do you think I should have stayed out of it
for a moment if it hadn't been for you? Has it ever crossed your mind
that if you had been half a man I might have acted like a whole one?
Have you ever looked back at the years and seen me going out into the
night to follow you and bring you back? I am not whining. I loved
you, and I wanted to do it; but it wasn't easy. And I should still be
doing it; but of late you've said things that I can't forgive. I've
stood by you because I gave a promise to my mother--that I wouldn't
leave you. And I've stayed. But now I shan't try any more. I am
going to France.
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