“An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. As the carpenter's gaze wandered over this scene of devastation, his attention was drawn by Mrs. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor.
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