Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations. ” “Of how beautiful my children would be?” He finished her sentence. She fidgeted and looked away. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell.
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