His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. As he felt the threshold of soft wetness he froze and said, “Lucy, are you sure?” She whispered, “Yes,” and guided the top of his penis into her vagina. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. 7.
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