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“And yet”—he turned me toward him, hand closing gently over one breast—“Yet when I think of you wi’ my child at your breast . . . then I feel as though I’ve gone hollow as a soap bubble, and perhaps I shall burst with joy.”
He pressed me tight against his chest, and I hugged him with all my might.
“Oh, Claire, ye do break my heart wi’ loving you.”
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Sigh. Every man among us should have to attend the Doug Watkins school of the correct thing to say. --
jayn, 04:52:11 04/23/12 Mon
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