I see the hatred in your eyes and the despair and the love and all of it?"brbr"I'm eleven," said Sport. "I'll be twelve next month."brbrCharlotte Vane had turned away. Her long, thin body leaned toward the window, her forehead touched the drape for one brief second, and then she turned back again.brbr"You've got a goddamned literal mind. You listen to me, little boy, because you've got one or two things you better get into your head right now. I'm not a dreamer like your father. I like money. I like money very much."brbrSport sat looking up at his mother, his face blank. He shifted one leg uneasily.brbr"And don't wiggle. If there's anything I hate more than little boys, it's wiggling little boys."brbrSport had a dark feeling, like being an unfriendly spider. I want to get out of this room, he thought, I want to get out and go back home and make my father pick up his socks.brbr"Your grandfather, Simon Vane, the old wretch, is down there in that sitting room dying right this minute. Your grandfather liked money a lot. Your grandfather made thirty million dollars. Made it. Do you understand that? He made it himself. He got up in the morning and he went downtown and he made it."brbrSport thought of the thin, small body downstairs, of the hands you could see through, the gaunt, tiny head, the clouded, unseeing eyes, eyes that used to light up, and the mouth that used to say, "Ah! Here's my boy! Here's my real son," whenever Sport walked into the room.brbr"He didn't sit around all day in front of a stupid toy, tap-tapping, tap-tapping, that damned tapping, you ?è  (less)