“Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. It wailed at Lucy, chubby arms reaching towards her, pleading. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world.
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