‘Left to yourself, my girl, you may not have any affairs. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. The son of Prudence instead was obliged to take her back to the convent on Sunday to see Martha and tell her the good news, and to fetch her meagre belongings. My parents would have given me the money, so that is exactly why I didn’t ask them. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. Here we are. There was another little thing he had to say. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold.
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