‘That little sentimental creature? She doesn’t know what love is.’ ‘Do you?’ I asked, letting my anger out. ‘I think I have had rather more experience of it than you,’ Aunt Augusta replied with calm and careful cruelty. It was true—I hadn’t even answered Miss Keene’s last letter. My aunt sat opposite me over her sole with an air of perfect satisfaction. She ate the shrimps that went with it one by one before she tackled the sole; she enjoyed the separate taste and she was in no hurry.
