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she’d come to learn that people didn’t like your wanting more than you had.
It was the dawn of 1940, and she had danced in the New Year in a boiler suit and satin sandals with a prince. She wondered what else the year would bring.
Are not there little chapters in everybody’s life, Beth had read in Vanity Fair only that morning, that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of history? Too soon to tell … but perhaps this was, in fact, going to be one of them.
“I don’t mind men who are shorter than me. I mind men who are touchy about being shorter than me.”
She wanted to go home, and she had no idea where to find it.
Osla couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the world could be borne simply because someone was holding her.
How obscene that in the middle of a world-enveloping war, with so many dying in bombing raids and on battlefields, people could still suffer from mundane diseases.
Where would they all go, that collection of strange and remarkable people assembled by wartime desperation?
Being cut off from life is like being dead.
