May
midnight
There is a bond , it appears , between mother and child which endures as long as they do . It is independent of love ; reason can not weaken it ; hate can not destroy it . When a man 's mother dies , something in the man dies , too . Blair Maitland , walking aimlessly about in the windy May midnight , standing on the bridge watching the slipping twinkle of a star in the inky ripples below him , was vaguely conscious of this . He thought , with a reluctance that was almost repulsion , of her will . He did not want to think of it , it was not fitting ! Yet he knew , back in his mind , that within a few days , as soon as decency permitted , he would take the necessary steps to contest it .