Activity

Oh, I don’t know. Those voices are remorseful, too⁠—they’re voices of regret. In any case, when we write novels, we can’t choose sides. We have to be on everyone’s side⁠—the woman’s, the man’s, the child’s. That’s what I find marvelous about novels, anyway⁠—that they allow us to hear everyone.

Oh, I don’t know. Those voices are remorseful, too⁠—they’re voices of regret. In any case, when we write novels, we can’t choose sides. We have to be on everyone’s side⁠—the woman’s, the man’s, the child’s. That’s what I find marvelous about novels, anyway⁠—that they allow us to hear everyone.

Violet did not think of Edmund being carried away. Already this buried hook of pain was what remained of him. She ran and seized the woman, falling on her knees too. The woman’s shouts pulsed into her chest and Violet began to sob, gripping tighter, squeezing her tears against the woman’s neck. She…

Violet knew it was a mistake, letting Edmund Bliss hold her hand. Not holding her hand⁠—only cradling her fingertips. It was most unlike him, yet like him all the same. This was how it would be, she told herself, to be married to him: a vague, tentative, fingertipping sort of love. If she ever marr…

Edmund stared blinkingly at the dancers again. He was the happiest he had ever been, and he needed to put an end to it. If the moment were drawn out, if he and Violet were to talk, he knew he would spoil it somehow. If only he could get away! He veered his head and saw Mrs. Simpson a few yards off.…