She’d asked the vicar to take ‘obey’ out of the marriage vows because it’s a ridiculous thing to say, a relic from when the slavery of the arrangement had been explicit. The vicar, pale lashes behind his wire-rimmed glasses, didn’t blink; he’d known her for her whole life. George was startled, but then quickly said he’d no objection. He’s not a Neanderthal. Yet here she is, obediently corralled with the other domesticated animals, without anything having needed to be said. There is a way of feeling alone that is not about being alone. But these are not things to write to Norah.
