Christabel came? Something that had made her feel so happy—it was just on the tip of her mind
No, she couldn't remember.
Pausing by the bureau to turn out the light, she looked into the mirror. She did look tired. Tired and old.
Christabel went to bed early. It was relaxing to put on her old wrapper, still in the closet, plaster on cold cream, and read The Ladies' Home Journal. "Wow wonderfully she comes home!" she could hear people saying. "Just like a little girl again—completely unspoiled." I'm glad I've kept my love for simple things, she thought, lighting another cigarette.
Home was rather pleasant, after all, with its shabby chintz and shabby old books, and garden roses whose edges had been nibbled by insects. Dinner starting right in without any soup, and the tablecloth just a tablecloth, not a bishop's brocaded robe or a lace altar cloth. She was glad she had been thoughtful enough
