It's sometimes the case in life that you can have ten thousand tiny, niggling bothersome things annoying you all at the same time, and you rise above them and just let them wash all over you. Inevitably, though, one more inconsequential trifle will come along and that one little thing is what will set you over the edge.And thus it was with Susan de CourceyBy now, Portia had endured day after interminable day of Susan's snide comments towards her, her legendary rudeness and her blatant disregard for the fact that, like it or not, Portia was the woman her only son had chosen to be his wife. Susan's attitude to her daughter-in-law had barely changed one jot since she first met and married Andrew: Portia may have come from a landed family but was still an arriviste of the highest order, who by a stroke of pure luck had happened to worm her way into her son's affections and who now lived for no other purpose than to fritter away every penny of his hard-earned cash on herself and, worse, that monstrous pile in Kildare she'd inherited from her sodden old alcoholic of a father.'And she's an appalling wife too,' Susan would chatter away on the phone in her bedroom to her great friend Nan Keane who lived on Vanderbilt Avenue and who also had a daughter-in-law she couldn't endure.
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