She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. “No, John, you won’t understand. Pancras,” she directed, promptly. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. That's the way it goes. If you assume the character of a debtor for your own convenience, you must be content to maintain it for ours. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing.
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