‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. That's the way it goes. Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones. Jack's body was caught, and passed from hand to hand over a thousand heads, till it was far from the fatal tree. It had been her home for hundreds of years. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter.
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