Sybil wants nothing more than to go to him and sit near him on the bed. She wants him to comfort her and this child -- her daughter. Yet there are memories at war within her; her heart tight with the love of two men and her head heavy with all she now knows.

"This child," she says softly, offering the crying babe her finger. She will need something, Sybil knows, though whether it is food or comfort of another type she cannot be sure. The girl takes it, suckling at her knuckle. Sybil cannot look up, cannot look at Henri now. "This is my daughter. I was married before, to Tom."