1. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Her lover surely did not 223 understand the implications of what he had asked for and his lust blinded him to the realities of existence even now. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You’re exactly twenty-three, and you’re got up as much as a woman of forty-five. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. If you noticed, our house is fairly close to the road.
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