Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. ‘You imbecile. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. Pilgrim's Progress, The Life of Martin Luther and Alice in Wonderland (the only fairy-story she had been permitted to read) were the sum total of her library. To her horror she realized that she had nearly forgotten how to kiss after a years-long dry spell, and she could detect drool on her own chin and John’s cheek. “And think of the ordinary wives and mothers, with their anxiety, their limitations, their swarms of children!” Mr. ‘Come on, Hilary. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter.
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