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Forster, E. M. (Edward Morgan), 1879-1970

"Where Angels Fear to Tread"

Then he screams for hours. My wife is to
have a light hand. Ah, how he kicks! Has he splashed you?
I am very sorry."
"I am ready for a soft towel now," said Miss Abbott, who
was strangely exalted by the service.
"Certainly! certainly!" He strode in a knowing way to
a cupboard. But he had no idea where the soft towel was.
Generally he dabbed the baby on the first dry thing he found.
"And if you had any powder."
He struck his forehead despairingly. Apparently the
stock of powder was just exhausted.
She sacrificed her own clean handkerchief. He put a
chair for her on the loggia, which faced westward, and was
still pleasant and cool. There she sat, with twenty miles
of view behind her, and he placed the dripping baby on her
knee. It shone now with health and beauty: it seemed to
reflect light, like a copper vessel. Just such a baby
Bellini sets languid on his mother's lap, or Signorelli
flings wriggling on pavements of marble, or Lorenzo di
Credi, more reverent but less divine, lays carefully among
flowers, with his head upon a wisp of golden straw. For a
time Gino contemplated them standing. Then, to get a better
view, he knelt by the side of the chair, with his hands
clasped before him.
So they were when Philip entered, and saw, to all
intents and purposes, the Virgin and Child, with Donor.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed; for he was glad to find things in
such cheerful trim.
She did not greet him, but rose up unsteadily and handed
the baby to his father.


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