She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. ’ A wary look came over her face, and Roding intervened. She looked and felt like a fairy princess.
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