Very pale, almost translucent in fact, doesn’t like the sun or dogs. Sex, for Lucile, had always been a delicate operation to say the very least, but there was no escaping the fact that she was pregnant. The ancient Doctor Spratt had confirmed that fact when he came to the house and examined her where she lay among her silk sheets. The look he gave her over the top of his spectacles was quizzical, not that Lucile noticed, she was too shocked by the news that she had a thing growing inside her that would become a child if she didn’t do something about it.
Of course she wasn’t so unworldly that she didn’t understand the process of how the thing had got there, but she had always made Rupert wear one of those sleeves on his sexual extremity when she had granted him occasional, very occasional, access to her body. As her thoughts rampaged through a disturbed mind about how this could have happened, they did stop for a moment to remember, and dwell on, a beautiful evening in the unusually hot April, when the two of them had drunk a couple of bottles of deliciously dry, cold, Sancerre in the overgrown arbour. Then it had seemed a natural course of events that they should slip to the grassy floor, the scent of the early roses in the air, to kiss with an eternal languor, and what else she couldn’t remember, although come to think about it, when she undressed that night she did wonder why there were no drawers to throw in the laundry basket when she slipped off her gown.