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Mother Her love for her father - as aged she thinks she is young again, & he is alive. She thinks her son is him, & he pretends he is, & says the kind of things her father wd have said, & she is happy - yet it is pathetic to think tht she has forgotten son who has been so good to her. The whole thing a proof how the people & events of our own childhood impress us. As we die, all else vanishes, & we use the words (like mother) that we have not used for sixty years & see the old furniture & faces & seem to live the old life.

[AB: This sounds as though Barrie was writing from actual experience. Margaret Ogilvy was beginning to lose her marbles around this time, evidenced by her only surviving letter to him, see p27 of JMB&TLB]