She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. She was discussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with an extraordinary, confidence. Sir John heard gossip about us—about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias ‘Alcide’ a dancer at the cafés chantants, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few—which were true. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. Because their human lives were so short, the happily married had no time to get sick of one another.
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