She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. Wood was scarcely seated before Mr. Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street.
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