“It’s what we learn at our mother’s knee. We’ve all got mother’s knees in our system—Jenny here worst of all—and till we learn to see through it——”
“Your metaphor is in peril, as well as your soul.”
“S.O.S.,” he laughed.
But at this tendency of the conversation to become highbrow, Jenny’s mood, as usual, flickered to restlessness. “I ought to go and see if Bobby’s all right; I haven’t been in all the evening.”
“You forget that you’re in a highly critical condition, and mustn’t be seen dancing about the corridors. I’ll go.”
And Deb wondered, as she closed the door behind her, if, in her absence, Jenny would contrive to win the gallon of oil for Cora....
Bobby was soundly asleep in his cot; his round, monkey face, so comically a replica of Jenny’s, snuggled half under the bed-clothes to meet his huddled-up knees. Deb was compelled to bend and lightly kiss him, for the sake of her private fondness for all small boys. A night-light floating on the table beside him was suddenly quenched. Deb turned to grope her way out of the room. She heard a groan behind her—and, for Bobby’s sake, bit back a sharp scream of terror—
“It’s only me,” came Dolph’s despondent reassurance.
“You? But I thought you were with—with the others.”
“They don’t want me.”