“You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. "What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. “Oh my God! You sounded like my Grandma just now! How did you do that?” He asked, shocked.
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