” 109 < 15 > AN AFFAIR TO FORGET, 1965 “What was your real Mom like?” Michelle asked when they were walking to school the next day. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. “Really, Vee, you seem to have advertised our relations pretty generally!” “They—they knew, of course. Stanley had never thought out. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. 1. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream.
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