At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. She pushed the former and it opened. "I've won, after all. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time. ” He left off abruptly. I don’t want a family in the suburbs and Christmases at the Florida house and summers at the Hamptons. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless.
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