Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. ” He left her where she was, crying in the doorway. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. “Fighting goes with loads of its own baggage, John.
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