Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. He seemed too noisy. ‘Oh, peste. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child.
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