She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. “And now, look at us! See what we have become. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving.
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