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In Cavendish Square Gardens an unoccupied bench was easy to find, as clearly no one else was foolish enough to consider it warm enough to eat their packed lunch outside. There was a blush of crocuses on the grass and daffodils were bravely spearing their way out of the earth, but there was no warmth in the anemic sun and Juliet soon began to grow numb with cold. The sandwich was no comfort; it was a pale, limp thing, a long way from the déjeuner sur l’herbe of her imagination that morning; nonetheless she ate it dutifully. Recently she had bought a new book, by Elizabeth David—A Book of
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wonderful couple of paragraphs
“Don’t seek out elaborate metaphors,” her English teacher had said of her school essays, but her mother’s death had revealed that there was no metaphor too ostentatious for grief. It was a terrible thing and demanded embellishment.
Our own homegrown evil, I’m sorry to say. And instead of rooting them out, the plan is to let them flourish—but within a walled garden from which they cannot escape and spread their evil seed.” A girl could die of old age following a metaphor like this, Juliet thought. “Very nicely put, sir,” she said.
heh
“Why not?” Mrs. Scaife said, navigating her way back to the sofa and dropping anchor (“Ouf”) on the salmon damask.
ouf
Why was it that the females of the species were always the ones left to tidy up? she wondered. I expect Jesus came out of the tomb, Juliet thought, and said to his mother, “Can you tidy it up a bit back there?”
heh
