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Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. “Delicious!” she murmured. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. He swore when I tried to get it out with the ladle, and told me what it said. Suspending his labour on Jack's appearance, the man demanded his business. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly.
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