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450 pages, Paperback
First published February 22, 1985
He had first seen Abingdon in the early spring of 1914, a day such as this with great fleecy clouds drifting over the hills and the soft smell of rain on the wind. […] And beyond the town, rows of neat little villas with rose bushes, laburnum, greenhouses, and birdbaths.The story is set in a period when an Englishwomen might be described as having “changed before dinner into American-style slacks and a blue cotton jersey”—and that brings me to one of the problems with the narration: its hilariously old-fashioned descriptions of women. The American slacks are followed by this:
He watched her as she cleared away the dishes and carried them into the kitchen—slim hips and long legs, breasts moving softly beneath the vivid blue cloth.Or:
She was sixteen, a tall, full-breasted, wide-hipped girl with a round, pretty face still plump with baby fat.Cringeworthy, right? Women are invariably described from a male point of view, and as characters they are rarely more than long-suffering witnesses to the “man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do” of their men’s ambitions. Plus they pack a mean picnic hamper:
“Chicken in herbs,” she said, unpacking the basket and placing the items on a blanket. “Potted shrimp, deviled eggs, sliced ham, French rolls, cheeses, a bottle of Chablis, a bottle of claret….”I wasn’t sure how accurate the language used by the mostly upper-class characters was. Did people really toast one another with “Here’s how”? Did pilots of Spitfires really shout “Tally ho!” as they dived down to shoot?
“What’s the White Mouse Club?”Or:
“A private social spot for well-heeled businessmen. A nunnery in the Shakespearean sense of the word.”
“You can drive if you like,” she told him.”Sweet, no? If men ever said things like that, they don't anymore!
“No, no. You look too enchanting behind the wheel.”