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Louis paused there looking in at his son, his heart abruptly filling with a love for the boy so strong that it seemed almost dangerous.
Louis was often struck by Gage’s speech, not because it was cute, but because he thought that small children all sounded like immigrants learning a foreign language in some helter-skelter bur fairly amiable way. He knew that babies make all the sounds the human voice box is capable of . . . the liquid trill that proves so difficult for first-year French students, the glottal grunts and clicks of the Australian bush people, the thickened, abrupt consonants of German. They lose the capability as they learn English, and Louis wondered now (and not for the first time) if childhood was not more a
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Why should he have to be the eternal supplier? What sort of shit was that?
