What might it have been?’ Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly. She worried for Cathy, working double shifts at the nearby family restaurant to help make ends meet. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. She felt the thrill race through her body. He insisted once again on opening the car door for her. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. She could not see any relief from this anxiety except repayment, and repayment seemed impossible. “So you come from Anna, do you?” she remarked. .
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