Margaret Vanetten the hired girl thought she herself might die of fright. She had never seen so much in her life, so much fluid and woman and marriage. It smelled of spilled whiskey up here. Something sterilized, surely. Then she thought: I will know this baby her whole life, I will love her more than anything or anybody. (She was certain it was a girl.) If we live through this—by we she meant only the baby and herself—I will love the child perfectly. “Don’t be scared,” she said.
