She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies. If you don’t eat humble-pie now you may live to fare worse later. I’ve got to run to get to my Study Hall.
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