I subtract myself from them and find life going on as usual—the land I love deteriorating, the world I adore growing ever more miserable.
I throw the papers and magazines on my coffee table and go to work.
7
Once, I laughed.
Not at the slapstick landslide of dirty dishes on the dowagers.
Not at the weird vanishing of Mrs. Doffin.
But at the matter of a baked apple.
O England—culture uncultivated!
Brave boors.