In the days following she brooded on the scene of her recent encounter with Nancy, dimly aware of her own mishandling of the occasion. She wished she could play it over again, perhaps by starting with a few positive comments about The Distant Folds before pitching in with the criticism. Or perhaps not. For her overriding feeling was not one of remorse; the honour she had felt in being the novel’s first reader was congealing into a resentment that she had ever been landed with it. Should a friend have put her under such a delicate obligation? And, having done so, turned huffy on being given an honest opinion? She reread the letter Nancy had enclosed with the manuscript and narrowed her eyes when she came to the line the only response I can imagine being hurt by is indifference. Huh! Not quite the only response, it would seem. She considered her alternatives: she must either bite her tongue and keep silent or else ‘have it out’ with her. Both prospects were vexing. In the end she decided to write to her.
