The air felt heavy, sweetish,
as if the rooms were permanently inhabited by genteel women, and the windows never opened. And Mrs
Durrant gave the same impression, of exhausted but cherished womanhood.
Instinctively, Mrs Marsh, who
had had a vigorous marriage, looked around for signs, even
relics , of a man, but (5) found
none. Her eye met only a rack containing fashion magazines, and library books, which, from their covers, looked as if they had been
written by women. Yet Mrs Durrant was still attractive
and must once have been a beauty .She
had an intimate way of taking , was fulsome in her gratitude, was, in fact,
pleasing, even intriguing. She
had a soft voice, beautifully tended hands with rosy polished nails. (10) One
of those hands had been laid on Mrs Marsh’s much larger rougher one , with its plain gold band. “ Don’t go,” said
Ms Durrant. “ my daughter will make us
some tea.” She padded over the pink and
blue carpet to the door. “Anna! Anna
darling! Will you make us some tea, dear? I want you to meet Mrs. Marsh.” The
sound of a sewing machine, so faint,
that it hardly registered as such,
stopped (15) abruptly. Ten minutes later Anna Durrant had come in with
tea things on a black japanned tray. Mrs
Marsh noticed her kingfisher- blue suit, in
fine tweed, which she admired. “Anna
makes all her own clothes,” said Mrs. Durrant proudly.
Then the two women fell greedily into exchanging the stories of their lives, for such
an encounter was not to be wasted. In fact Mrs. Marsh was adept at dealing (20) out the few
facts she was willing to make public
- the dead husband, one
daughter, one son - knowing that
this was the appropriate currency for a person of her age and type, but
actually too curious about this
affecting woman with her old- fashioned flowery elegance and her general air of bewilderment to waste time on herself.
Fraud, Anita Brookner
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