Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. My only love is for my poor lost son. Do you know that he is very much in love with you?” Anna smiled. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. That had shut him up for a while. Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted the room she bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him laughingly, that she would "defer all she had to propose to him until to-morrow. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting.
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