’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. Better take these sandwiches. “I have given her two days’ holiday,” Anna answered.
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