She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. Wood. She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. “I have been very selfish,” she declared. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought.
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