“One learns that one’s continuation cannot be taken for granted, or, as the poet puts it, never glad confident morning again. My brush with mortality—and it was only a bad attack of the flu—made me grateful and tender-hearted. Above all I was grateful for Angela’s care, which remained constant. I accepted the fact that she now took charge of my comfort and, incidentally, of my flat; I would arrive home in the evenings to find her scrutinising swatches of fabric and colour charts. She was overjoy...ed, not only to have become engaged, but to have become engaged before any of her friends had managed to do so. And I think she loved me, in her rather juvenile and utterly conventional way: I was, as men go, a good catch. And I? I loved her pretty hands and feet, the camomile smell of her hair. I loved her domesticity, the stateliness with which she presided over my household affairs. She gave up her job immediately, although I urged her not to; I was alternately becalmed and disconcerted to think of her sitting at home all day, although she seemed to think this perfectly natural.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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