The arrival of la tante Prudence late next day had changed all this, it is true. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. His assistance came too late. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. She kept trying to shut her legs, to stop the baby from coming out.
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