‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. His food lay untouched about his plate.
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