She had only known one serious anxiety--lest her flesh and blood should
harbour any of the blood and flesh left over after Morrie was made. She
had married Anthony to drive out Morrie from the bodies and souls of her
children. She meant that, through her and Anthony, Morrie should go, and
Dorothea, Michael, Nicholas and John should remain.

As Frances looked at the four children, her mouth tightened itself so as
to undo the ruinous adoration of her eyes. She loved their slender
bodies, their pure, candid faces, their thick, straight hair that parted
solidly from the brush, clean-cut and shining like sheets of polished
metal, brown for Dorothy, black-brown for Nicholas, red gold for Michael
and white gold for John. She was glad that they were all made like that;
slender and clear and hard, and that their very hair was a thing of
clean surfaces and definite edges. She disliked the blurred outlines of
fatness and fuzziness and fluffiness. The bright solidity of their forms
helped her to her adored illusion, the illusion of their childhood as
going on, lasting for ever and ever.

They would be the nicest looking children at Mrs. Jervis's party. They
would stand out solid from the fluffiness and fuzziness and fatness of
the others. She saw people looking at them. She heard them saying: "Who
are the two little boys in brown linen?"--"They are Michael and Nicholas
Harrison." The Funny Man came and said: "Hello! I didn't expect to see
you here!" It was Michael and Nicholas he didn't expect to see; and the
noise in the room was Nicky's darling laughter.

Music played. Michael and Nicholas danced to the music. It was Michael's
body and Nicky's that kept for her the pattern of the dance, their feet
that beat out its measure. Sitting under the tree of Heaven Frances