“Marriage and mothering,” said Ann Veronica, with her mind crystallizing out again as the lark dropped to the nest in the turf. Then blackness. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. Gazing at her with eyes blinded with tears, he imprinted one brotherly kiss upon her lips. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child.
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