Jane and Prudence

People do seem to be ashamed of admitting that they read poetry, unless they have a degree in English – it is permissible then.

‘Do you suppose Miss Bates has any love life?’ asked Marilyn idly one morning after Prudence had been staying with Jane. ‘She’s quite attractive still, really.’
‘I wonder how old she is,’ said Gloria. ‘About thirty, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes, must be. I hope I die before I’m thirty – it sounds so old.’

One’s married friends were too apt to assume that one had absolutely nothing to do when not at the office. A flat with no husband didn’t seem to count as a home.

It is in better taste somehow that a man should be unfaithful to his wife away from home.

He supposed that the occasion was one which called for a drink; indeed, in his life there was hardly any occasion which did not.

You see, her husband was more interested in other women than he wsin her. I believe that does sometimes happen. Her death came as a great chock to him - he had almost forgotten her existence.

She lit a cigarette and began to unpack her case. She felt happier with her own possessions around her, her hot-water bottle in its pink cover, her turquoise blue wool housecoat, her bottles and jars on the chest of drawers and Arthur Grampian's photograph, cut from some learned periodical, on the bedside table.

When they got settled in the new parish she would ask her to stay, not just for a week-end, but for a nice long time. New surroundings and new people would do much for her and there might even be work with her hands, digging, agriculture, something in the open air. But a glance at Prudence's small, useless-looking hands with their long red nails convinced her that this would hardly be suitable.