She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. “What’s going on with you?” John asked inquisitively, looking down at her abdomen. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. She had imagined she had drowned them altogether. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming.
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