It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. It is necessary. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. It was in fact the first embrace of motherhood she had ever known. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. . ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade.
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