'When I leave the room, holding my fingers to my nose, I can still smell the baby's scent. I hurry back to my room, pour water from the ewer into the basin and keep my hands immersed till it is gone.
"Anne!" My father calls from the hall. The house holds its breath to listen as my feet tap tap down the stairs to find him ‑ we are both wondering what he might say.
"Come!" He si at his study door and indicates I should follow him in. I lift my skirts as I enter the room as if crossing shallow water. It is the moat of my father's constant disapproval that I try and avoid, for it wets so much and stinks when it dries.'
The Butcher's Hook
(Page 54-55)
Georgian filth.
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