Sublime

My mother hated Uncle Roger’s wife, her aunt Rose. Why? She had an operation on her stomach, and when Nana and I walked into her hospital room, she said to the people there, “And these are my poor relations.” My mother clung to that story. She wasn’t classy like Aunt Rose or Uncle Roger, but she wasn’t poor enough to be called poor. I carefully rem

Viola imposed upon her lover but a short probation. They were married, as was becoming, with great privacy, – almost with secrecy, – in the hope perhaps, as was waggishly remarked at the time, that the late Mrs Lloyd wouldn’t hear of it.

Lady Plackett took the binoculars. Her sight was less keen than her daughter’s but she too agreed that the girl was Ruth. She turned to Miss Somerville. ‘This is unfortunate,’ she said. ‘And quite irregular. The girl is a Jewish refugee who seems to think that she is entitled to every sort of privilege.’

Sylvia D’Agostino Born 1958 in Leith, Scotland, the daughter of Eduardo D’Agostino, the poet.

“Yes but not for long. Poor Scott. Terribly black-ass. He’d come to collect some things he’d left in storage.” “Was he with Zelda?” “No, he had to put her somewhere for safekeeping. He was feeling bereft and sorry for himself, and for her. We were having dinner at the Closerie. ‘Just imagine,’ he said, ‘ten years ago we were the Golden Girl and her

she was little; hepaticas, trillium, jack-in-the-pulpit.

It very soon came to be predicted that he would marry again, and there were at least a dozen young women of whom one may say that it was by no fault of theirs that, for six months after his return, the prediction did not come true.