Clarice loved babies as much as Lucia did and chattered about them day and night. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none the better for anticipating its miseries to-day. She cried out in pain, then in pleasure as he thrust himself into her. Not at all. It does not work, I still suffer madness. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure.
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