He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Miss Mary to the life. It did not take a mind reader to glean that she had suddenly gained the boy’s obsessive attention.
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