Marina doted over her pregnant daughter, adorned in fine brocades, reassuring her that it was certain to be a either a baby boy or a girl of such great beauty she would eclipse them both. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. " The patient was asleep. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Occasionally he relit his pipe.
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