Dang of the bay-window alcove
room, "and she waves him good-by every morning clear down the block."
"You can't tell about anybody nowadays," vouchsafed some one,
tremendously.
But in the end the consensus of opinion, unanimous to the vote, was:
Lovely woman, Mrs. Jett.
Nice couple; so unassuming. The goodness looks out of her face; and so
reserved!
But it was this aura of reserve that kept Mrs. Jett, not without a bit
of secret heartache about it, as remote from the little world about her
as the yolk of an egg is remote from the white. Surrounded, yet no part
of those surroundings. No osmosis took place.
Almost daily, in some one or another's room, over Honiton lace or the
making of steel-bead chatelaine bags, then so much in vogue, those
immediate, plushy-voiced gatherings of the members of the plain gold
circle took place. Delicious hours of confidence, confab, and the
exchanges of the connubially loquacious.
The supreme _lese majeste_ of the married woman who wears her state of
wedlock like a crown of blessed thorns; bleeds ecstatically and swaps
afternoon-long intimacies, made nasty by the plush in her voice, with
her sisters of the matrimonial dynasty.
Pages:
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238