For I still love her mother. I shall start at the bottom. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. Clarice loved babies as much as Lucia did and chattered about them day and night. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. The boy would naturally attract the women, if the women were at all romantic. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. He never retires to rest till daybreak—if at all. Cast off this weakness.
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