Marina gently passed the swaddled infant to his mother, who sat down on the bed proudly to nurse the baby, extracting a fat breast from her heavy gown. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere.
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