Jack was not half your age when he died. She knew the truth of it all right. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. Suspending his labour on Jack's appearance, the man demanded his business. ‘What started you off, you madman,’ Roding told him frankly, as he set about tying his handkerchief around the wound, ‘was being born at all. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it. It’s artificially chance. That, I think, is manifest.
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