“It seemed as though every end of February was the turning point of the year, the ebb when nothing could become colder or gloomier or more miserable, and from then on everything was better. She remembered slush in Westport, dangerous roads, the children at home cranky with colds and tired of all the therapeutic educational little games she had invented for them, the floors of their rooms constantly littered with cut-out colored paper, their hands on the quilts sticky with library paste, their no...ses running, their voices shrill with petulance despite their hoarseness. And then she herself always caught whatever cold the children had, but much worse, and being the head of the household during the day she could not allow herself to go to bed. She would have a headache and sore throat and feel ugly, and there was always something: the oil burner broke down one February, Julie’s Siamese kitten was killed by a car driven by a twelve-year-old boy with no driving license, and one February their substitute cleaning lady (the regular one had the flu) disappeared, taking with her, of all improbable things, considering the jewelry and heirlooms in the house, their portable television set.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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