Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. Sebastian howled with laughter, doubling over. "Well, I'm sure Winifred could never have loved you as well as I do," said Mrs. ‘Ah, yes? To what do I pretend?’ ‘That,’ Gerald said regretfully, ‘I have not yet been able to fathom. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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