“So all right,” she said, as Joe started sweeping the shards together with the flat of his hand. “You know.” “I do now. I always thought so, but I—” “You always thought so? Since when?” “Since I heard about it. You wrote me, remember, in the navy, back in 1942, I think. There were pictures. I could tell.” “You have known since 1942 that you”—she lowered her voice to an angry whisper—“that you had a son, and you never—”
