Her relationship with John had made her the object of desire for scores of teenage boys who had dared not previously think of her in such a way. So far it had been plain sailing, and it had seemed fairly evident to go on: “I find it very difficult to answer your letter. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. Naturally it all came out then. She was like an angel with one wing. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. I’m glad I did.
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