Edith set down her glass and turned to Raquel. There were doves in the eaves and the honeyed light of Paris shone through the window.
"You are a cliche' right out of Boheme," she said. "Look at you, that studied brown dress that makes you look like a gutter waif. Pull yourself together and finish one of your several degrees, my dear. Become someone. Have a child. Anything that gives you a life."
Raquel bit her lip, restraining herself from putting her mother's eye out with the poker gleaming at the hearth.
"Actually, she said, straightening her shoulders, "I am pregnant. "
Edith's mouth twitched. She stepped back and sat heavily down in her chair, lighting a cigarette, arranging herself in the brocade chair, turning her profile to her daughter. .
"Dieux. You trollop. You exhaust me. Have you scheduled an abortion?"
Now Raquel knew she had her mother cornered for the coup d'gras.
No. I am having the child. I have married the father, whom you've not met; we have taken a flat in London."