—French Saying Chapter Eight If one did not enter purgatory until after death, Simon had to wonder what name to give to the near eternity he’d spent having dinner in Portland Square the previous evening. That his mother had wrought a near miracle—in keeping with the religious theme Simon found himself drawn to when thinking of the evening—was not to overstate her success. But having to spend the entire evening listening to his mother’s glee at having performed this marvelous feat would, Simon was sure, have tested the patience of Job. “Now, watch, Simon,” she’d commanded. “Watch her walk. Floats, don’t she? You would think she’d clump across the room, like most horsewomen, but she don’t. Had her walking with a book on her head all the week long. Two books, near the end of the thing, then the whole set. You might think me to be rough-and-tumble, Simon, and I am, but that don’t mean I don’t know what’s right and proper.”
