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448 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1959
He clutched his beard. "Ought to've known better. Gave up arguing with women long ago. Thought you were different. No stability. No damned logic. Go on. Go and drown yourself in the Thames. That's feminine. That's understandable."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she said, getting to her feet. "I know you're advising for the best, but…"
"Well," he said. "You don't want that sort of argument. Sordid, you think. Mercenary. What about the other. You're twenty-six. Just the right age. You've got looks. You'll go on having looks for another fifteen years. They'll get better for five or ten. I know your sort. Even though I am ignorant I didn't always keep mice. You've just lost your husband and jilted your lover. Your heart's broken. So you think. Well, I'm sorry if it is. But has it occurred to you that there are twenty-two million odd people in England and Wales, and that somewhere among them there may be other men that you could fall in love with? And that if you're a bit more experienced and a bit more choosy next time you may find one who's neither a weakling nor a knave. People aren't born wise in this life, they buy experience, and if they're lucky they buy it in time. You're not an unlucky broken-hearted woman; you're lucky, lucky because you've learnt so much--I hope--and still so young. Stop being sorry for yourself and use your head again!"