It is simply our point of view which is altogether different. She had intended to be quietly dignified, but he was in a smouldering rage from the beginning, and began by assuming, which alone was more than flesh and blood could stand, that the insurrection was over and that she was coming home submissively. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. The tired woman looked quietly at her.
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