Rianne insisted as Colleen turned from her reverie at the window, her movements slow and weighted with self-pity. “Now mark me well, Colleen McClagan,” said Rianne. “I’ve coddled and cradled you long enough. It’s been a month since you’ve closed yourself up in my house, pouting about and feeling sorry for yourself. I’ll have no more of it. I thought I was helping by letting you be, but now I see that my lenient attitude has allowed you to fall into a dangerous state of melancholy. Melancholy is understandable. ’Tis part of the lives we must lead, but you’ve gone too far. You’re indulging yourself in melancholy much as the obese man indulges himself in sweetbread. Such indulgences lead to sloth, surrender, and, even worse, early death. If you prefer not to live, have the courtesy to extinguish yourself quickly. But please do not drag out the ordeal in this perfectly lovely bedroom. Do you hear me? Is my meaning clear?” “I know you mean well, dear Auntie, but …”
