I stopped short at the door. Batsheva was there, the child nestled sleepily against her breast. I had not expected that. She had her head down, her back half turned to me. But even from that partial view, I could see that she was, as David had said, a striking woman: creamy skin, a glossy fall of obsidian hair, which she wore unbound and uncovered. Even in her loose robe it was possible to discern long, slender legs, a supple rounding of hips, and generous breasts, against which the baby lay, his thick shock of hair bearing fiery witness to his paternity. When David presented her she looked up, and I took a step backward. Her eyes were unexpected: a luminous blue. Also shocking: despite her tall, full figure, the face that gazed up at me was the face of a child. She was very young. Awkwardly, not knowing how else to greet her, I asked how she did. Her voice, when she answered, was the breathy voice of a shy girl, barely audible.
