She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Lucy did not want to have to kill the mother, as she hated more than anything to kill women, no matter what their sins. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk.
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