Good. A change, Susan Morrow’s had enough of this. She wonders if Edward expects a compliment on the internal organs oozing through the beard. Perhaps the pariah with the turban and the castaway goat was something he forgot to revise. How far can she read tonight? She looks ahead to calculate. Right now we’re about midway, should finish tomorrow. Take a break. ‘Rosie, bed!’ Tiny voice upstairs. ‘I yam in bed, Mama.’ Jeffrey wants to go out. She opens the door, lets him go. Not supposed to, but it’s late, no one will know. Keep out of trouble, mister. She goes to the kitchen. Snack, a Coke? The kitchen is cold, temperature dropping outside. In the study she hears the voices of a television sitcom, nobody watching, someone left it on all evening. She feels bruised by her reading and by life too. She wonders, does she always fight her books before yielding to them? She rides back and forth between sympathy for Tony and exasperation. If only she didn’t have to talk to Edward afterwards.
