"Yes."
"I want to have eighteen kids," she said. "And I want them all to grow
up florists and nurserymen and horticulturists. I understand me. Us.
He had to spend all his time in the greenhouses because I spoiled the
whole rest of his world. I'll get him out oftener, now. Not too much.
Enough."
I looked at her--the clear amethyst irises, the gilded cascade of her
hair, the expectation of her body. "You sure will."
"I'm so--full--so--complete. So--_ready_."
"There are other girls like Gwen," I said. "Some."
"I'll be busy. Don't you think? The children, for one thing. And my
libido will be preoccupied, I imagine. Don't you? And suppose I had a
small emotional accident some foggy afternoon at Malibu?"
"Rol would raise hell."
Her dimples showed. "I would try to make certain he never found out
about it. My privacy. And I am quoting you, Dr. Wylie! Oh, I could hug
you right here and now! And anyway--it isn't so much something you
do. It's something to know is unlocked, that's all. When you can--you
probably never do; when you can't--you hardly do anything but yearn;
and never know for what. You know that--don't you? That's why Gwen--?"