Chapter 11

           ConniewassortingoutoneoftheWragbylumberrooms.Therewereseveral:thehousewasawarren,andthefamilyneversoldanything.SirGeoffrey’sfatherhadlikedpicturesandSirGeoffrey’smotherhadlikedcinquecentofurniture.SirGeoffreyhimselfhadlikedoldcarvedoakchests,vestrychests.Soitwentonthroughthegenerations.Cliffordcollectedverymodernpictures,atverymoderateprices.

           SointhelumberroomtherewerebadSirEdwinLandseersandpatheticWilliamHenryHuntbirds’nests:andotherAcademystuff,enoughtofrightenthedaughterofanR.A.Shedeterminedtolookthroughitoneday,andclearitall.Andthegrotesquefurnitureinterestedher.

           Wrappedupcarefullytopreserveitfromdamageanddry-rotwastheoldfamilycradle,ofrosewood.Shehadtounwrapit,tolookatit.Ithadacertaincharm:shelookedatitalongtime.

           ’It’sthousandpitiesitwon’tbecalledfor,’sighedMrsBolton,whowashelping.’Thoughcradleslikethatareoutofdatenowadays.’

           ’Itmightbecalledfor.Imighthaveachild,’saidConniecasually,asifsayingshemighthaveanewhat.

           ’YoumeanifanythinghappenedtoSirClifford!’stammeredMrsBolton.

           ’No!Imeanasthingsare.It’sonlymuscularparalysiswithSirClifford--itdoesn’taffecthim,’saidConnie,lyingasnaturallyasbreathing.

           Cliffordhadputtheideaintoherhead.Hehadsaid:’OfcourseImayhaveachildyet.I’mnotreallymutilatedatall.Thepotencymayeasilycomeback,evenifthemusclesofthehipsandlegsareparalysed.Andthentheseedmaybetransferred.