“He’s my own brother,” Mother says. “He’s the last Bascomb. When we are gone there wont be any more of them.” “That’ll be hard on somebody, I guess,” I says. “All right, all right,” I says. “It’s your money. Do as you please with it. You want me to tell the bank to pay it?” “I know you begrudge him,” she says. “I realise the burden on your shoulders. When I’m gone it will be easier on you.” “I could make it easier right now,” I says. “All right, all right, I wont mention it again. Move all bedlam in here if you want to.” “He’s your own brother,” she says. “Even if he is afflicted.”
