McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. He thought her only an orphan in search of her English relatives. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. It is the immediate inspiration of confidence; it alleviates pain, because we know by that smile that pain is soon to leave us; it becomes the bulwark against our depressive thoughts of death; and it is the promise that we still have a long way to go before we reach the Great Terminal.
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