With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. Knap. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. It could not be a legal marriage. He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library.
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