The Glass House

I think if we keep the dark things shut up inside,’ she goes on, ‘they grow big. Like weeds. They smother all the flowers and block the sunlight.

Don't worry what other people think, be who you want to be.

seat. ‘We’re escaping the grimy city for the summer,’ she says cheerily, even though she loves London in August, its fractious energy and greasy hotdog heat.

The closer you are to death, the more alive you feel.

I touch her hand. Her skin is silky and firm, like the white of a hard-boiled egg. Her fingers wrap around my thumb and don’t let go. “Hello, you,” I whisper.

Light rain releases the Christmasy smell of pine needles.

A familiar feeling of being in some fundamental way wrong empties over Rita. Why did she think it a good idea to wear her dreary navy A-line skirt and flat brown shoes again?

The relief of her is physical and enormous.

Aunt Edie has declared herself too clever for marriage and wears a white shirt and navy slacks and works on a newsmagazine that sends her abroad to dangerous places, armed with a pen. She’s been shot at twice.