“It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. ” She sat very still. In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living. You will obey me out of common decency. We’ll leave him here, with a couple of others.
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