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266 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1973
“Hallo,” said Eustace, meeting her eye with an unblinking blue gaze.
Her hand was half-way out to shake his, but Eustace either didn’t see this or chose to ignore it.
Mrs. Parsons’s hand dropped back to her side.
Her manner became, subtly, a fraction more cool.
“I don’t think you can give a damn for your children. You don’t want to be bothered with them. Someone else has always done the washing and the ironing and you’re not going to start now. You’re too bloody idle to take them for picnics and read them books and put them to bed. It’s really nothing to do with Bosithick. Whatever house you found, you’d be sure to find something wrong with it. Any excuse would do provided you never have to admit to yourself that you can’t be bloody bothered to take care of your own children.”
“Well, what am I going to eat?” Eustace caught the tail end of this conversation as he came, dripping, up the beach. “What’s this?” He stopped to pick up a towel. “I’m very hungry and Mummy hasn’t brought anything to eat.” “Too bad,” said Eustace unsympathetically.
She stared at him, accepting for the first time the fact that personal tragedy is just that. Personal. Your own existence could fall to pieces but that did not mean that the rest of the world necessarily knew about it, or even bothered.
It was disturbing, this awareness of the past, but somehow elemental, and so not really frightening.