"Getting the betrothed of the Imperial Palace pregnant! Now there's an achievement! How many of these simpering lads nowadays are capable of anything like that? No doubt about it --- Kiyoaki's a true grandson of my husband's. You won't regret it even if you are jailed for it. At least they surely won't execute you," she said, obviously enjoying herself. The stern lines around her mouth were gone now, and she seemed aglow with a lively satisfaction, as if she had banished decades of stifling gloom, dispersing at a single stroke the enervating pall that had hung over the house ever since the present Marquis had become its master. Nor was she laying the blame on her son alone. She was speaking now in retaliation against all those others, too, who surrounded her in her old age, and whose treacherous power she could sense closing in to crush her. Her voice came echoing gaily out of another era, one of upheavals, a violent era forgotten by this generation, in which fear of imprisonment and death held no one in check, an era in which the threat of both was part of the texture of everyday life. She belonged to a generation of women who thought nothing of washing their dinner plates in a river where corpses went floating past. That was life! And now, how remarkable that this grandson, who seemed so effete at first glance, should have revived the spirit of that age before her very eyes.
Yukio Mishima, Spring Snow, Pocket edition, pages 278-9.