John Collier In the Venusberg Tannhauser painting

ve been into that; two arms, two legs, one head, white—just a baby. Of course, you can’t tell for some time if it’s sane or not. I believe the first sign is that it can’t take hold of things with its hands. Did you know that Lucy’s grandmother was shut up?”
“I had no idea.”
“Yes. Lucy never saw her, of course. It’s why she’s anxious about Julia.”
“Is she anxious about Julia?”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“How soon can you tell if they’re blind?”
“Not for weeks, I believe. I asked Sister Kemp. She said, ‘The very idea,’ and whisked the baby off as if I wanted to injure it, poor little brute. D’you know what Lucy calls Sister Kemp now?—Kempy.”
“It’s not possible.”
It was true. I went in to see her for five minutes and twice during that time she said “Kempy.” When we were alone for a minute I asked her why. “She asked me to,” said Lucy, “and she’s really very sweet.”
“Sweet?”