I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. . What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. ’ She was too distressed to bear this. “Think of the mockery!” she said. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Then she shrugged. ’ She paused, struggling for the word. ” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite.
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