“Peter Ketley,” I said, in as collected a voice as I could manage. And this time the significance of the silence did not escape me.
“Then your cup of happiness ought to be full,” I heard the voice on the other side of the door remark with heavy deliberateness. I stood there with my face leaning against the cool panel.
“It is,” I said with a quiet audacity which surprised me almost as much as it must have surprised the man on the bed a million miles away from me.
Sunday the Eighth
How different is life from what the fictioneers would paint it! How hopelessly mixed-up and macaronic, how undignified in what ought to be its big moments and how pompous in so many of its pettinesses!
I told my husband to-day that Poppsy and I were going back to Casa Grande. And that, surely, ought to have been the Big Moment in the career of an unloved invertebrate. But the situation declined to take off, as the airmen say.
“I guess that means it’s about time we got unscrambled,” the man I had once married and lived with quietly remarked.
“Wasn’t that your intention?” I just as quietly inquired.