And I reflected that a woman had to be jealous of something. If there wasn’t another woman, then it was a man’s work, or his hobby, or his best friend, or his favourite sweater, or his pet mongoose that made her resentful. There is a story in Kipling about a woman who grew insanely jealous of a horse’s saddle because her husband spent an hour every day polishing it with great care and loving kindness.
