Light in August

by William Faulkner

“Was it Byron Bunch you expected?” Still she does not look away. Hightower’s face is sober, firm, gentle. Yet in it is that ruthlessness which she has seen in the faces of a few good people, men usually, whom she has known. He leans forward and lays his hand on hers where it supports the child’s body. “Byron is a good man,” he says. “I reckon I know that, well as anybody. Better than most.” “And you are a good woman. Will be. I dont mean—” he says quickly. Then he ceases. “I didn’t mean—” “I reckon I know,” she says. “No. Not this. This does not matter. This is not anything yet. It all depends on what you do with it, afterward. With yourself. With others.” He looks at her; she does not look away. “Let him go. Send him away from you.” They look at one another. “Send him away, daughter. You are probably not much more than half his age. But you have already outlived him twice over. He will never overtake you, catch up with you, because he has wasted too much time. And that too, his nothing, is as irremediable as your all. He can no more ever cast back and do, than you can cast back and undo. You have a man-child that is not his, by a man that is not him. You will be forcing into his life two men and only the third part of a woman, who