Scrambling up on all fours, backing away from him, she retreated against the wall as if she were poised for flight; she looked so like her father that he almost couldn’t speak. The dirty white T-shirt didn’t cover her nakedness: her flanks were lean as a boy’s and the bristling, dark pubic hair was just like Zachary’s. Her beauty wasn’t the type Alex desired in women, too forceful; she’d had this force ever since she was a tiny girl, and it had always roused some pain of protection in him, afraid for the consequences of her bluntness and lack of inhibition. He was relieved that his own daughter Isobel was reserved and feminine, knew how to take care of herself. Grace was tall and sturdily built, muscular from her work with hard materials; her slight breasts were the merest points under the T-shirt and her head was shapely, proportionate like a classical ideal, almost androgynous; her wiry hair grew out in a dense mass of black. Under ordinary circumstances, she was drily humorous. She and Alex were famous jokers usually, when they got together.

— Who is this? the boy said, putting a hand out to Grace supportively, but she shook him off, smacking out at him, so that Alex saw he wasn’t important. He was clearly a mistake, with his whiskery gingery beard, blundering out of his depth.

— Would you mind leaving us? Alex said. — I have something I have to tell her.

Grace put her hands over her ears. — No, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know! I don’t want to hear it!

The boy was bemused. — What’s going on?

— I’m so sorry, my beloved Grace, Alex said.

— Don’t tell me! she cried.

Afterwards she said she’d known, as soon as she opened her eyes and saw his face. — You should see your face, Alex. It’s a giveaway. And of course if anyone else had died, Dad would have come to tell me.