Lucy was charmed; how peaceful the baby looked. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. “That is where my cervix should be. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this man's life as a hand into a glove; to use all her skill to force him into the position of depending upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire! He should have his book, even if it had to be written with her heart's blood. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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