A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. This was his humiliation as well as hers. . . He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. “Time for my Patience,” she said. No one ate with as much passionate gusto as a teenager could. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility.
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