“Hi. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. There was. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. I’ve told you that practically already. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. “Please forgive me.
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