She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. “Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!.
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