"I'm kind of wondering, Bud," he went on presently, "wondering if you
get all that means--means to me. I don't know." He passed a hand
slowly across his brow, as though to brush aside growing perplexities.
"I don't seem to get all it means myself. No, I don't. The whole
thing's so queer," he went on, with a nervous, restless movement in his
chair. "It sort of seems crazy, too." He laughed meaninglessly. Then
he suddenly leaned forward with flushed cheeks and hot eyes. "Bud,
don't think me crazy, but--well, say, I'm only part of me without Ronny
near. Oh, I don't guess that explains. But it's what I feel--and I
can't just talk it right. You don't get it? No, of course you don't.
I can see it in your eyes. You think I'm right for the foolish-house.
Listen. Is it possible--is it ordinary reason that when twins are
born, the nature of one normal child can be divided between the two,
one having what the other feller lacks? There, that's how I feel about
it. It's the way it is with Ronny and me. All that he is not, I am.
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