I shook my head, but said nothing. “Oh, they do—I know they do.
Remember how you got them, Eleanor. Was it worth it? For her?
Oh, there’s room on your other cheek for a bit more hurt, isn’t there?
Turn the other cheek for Mummy, Eleanor, there’s a good girl.”
And then there was only silence. On the bus to work on Friday, I felt strangely calm.
I hadn’t drunk vodka after the chat with Mummy, but only because I didn’t have any, and I didn’t want to go out alone in the dark to buy some.
Always alone, always dark. So, instead, I had made a cup of tea and read my book,
distracted occasionally by my flashing green fingernails as I turned the pages.
I’d had enough of tropical fruit for the time being, and needed something more conducive to matters of the heart.
Sense and Sensibility. It’s another one of my favorites: top five, certainly.
I love the story of Elinor and Marianne. It all ends happily, which is highly unrealistic,
but, I must admit, narratively satisfying, and I understand why Ms. Austen adhered to the convention.
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