Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. “I did,” Anna answered. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. “Oh, you know,” she said. There’s no logic in these things. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets.
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