Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. But when she saw the car, her body filled with dread, for it gave her a bad feeling. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. They thought that she was her own mother. Stanley admired and detested him in almost equal measure. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. He brought me past this house, and I thought I would call and leave your brother’s letter. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father.
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