At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. But go on. She reached for the door handle. “A little touchy this evening, aren’t we, Missy?” Michelle chided her friend. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked.
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