Like all American women, she always wears trousers, or pants, is she so delightfully calls them, two sizes too big. Rupert took a deep gulp and went on reading Audax on the Derby. It won’t do your image any good, nor will a lot of emotive stuff about selling Macaulay to the Middle East, and him starving and ending up in the stone quarries. “You can’t, Rupert,” said Janey, half-laughing.
As though it were in braille, she put her hand up to touch the gold, tracing the lady with her sheaf of corn on one side, the athlete borne aloft on the other. She gazed down at her mother’s feet, noticing the newly painted scarlet nails, cotton wool keeping each toe apart. “I’m just going to wander over and see that everything’s all right. She’ll go potty if she sees Jake.
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