‘I broke in. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Briefly, with a careless wave towards the couple, the comtesse presented them as Monsieur and Madame Valade. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. ‘That is my mother.
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