Spurlock. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. There was barely room for one, let alone two, in the passage, and Melusine ended up backwards, supporting Jack as best she could as he stumbled along, grasping the rough walls on either side with both hands. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. It seems to me exactly what is wanted. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. I suppose we’re all human beings really, but what price the sacred Institution of the Family! Us as a bundle! Eh?.
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