Avon.
Concussed by these realities and worse, refinement shuddered and turned away.
The two girls walked home hand in hand, not so much like lovers as like an elderly couple, grave with information and responsibility.
Coming home was to a Dora of outraged quiet, of which some cause must, sooner rather than later, be explosively made known.
Or to Dora disfigured by tears from the affront of some neighbour, now marked down for life. Meaning was acoustical, ringing out, shaping inflections, filling silences. Grievance was statistical: "They only invited me once in two years," "In all that time I was there to tea exactly twice." Any crisis of classroom or playground, inadvertently disclosed, might set Dora to shrieking, "Peace! I want peace!"—the house resounding to cries of "Peace!" long after the girls were in their beds.
Dora could always die, so she said. I CAN ALWAYS DIE, as if this were a solution to which she might repeatedly resort. She told them that death was not the worst, as if she had had the opportunity of testing. She said she could do away with herself. Or she could disappear. Who would care, what would it matter. They flung themselves on her in terror, Dora don't die, Dora don't disappear.
No, she was adamant: It was the only way.
How often, often, she drew upon this inexhaustible reserve of her own death, regenerated over and over by the horror she inspired by showing others the very brink. It was from their ashen fear that she rose, every time, a phoenix. Each such borrowing from death gave her a new lease on life.
Not that Dora was tolerant of the afflicted or of those who had gone under. "We could all give in," she said, when told that Miss Garside the librarian had completely dropped her bundle. The maimed or blinded were a resented incursion on pity that was Dora's by right: Dora's cry for help must drown out all others. She was quite taken up with her own disappearance, which loomed the largest presence in their lives.
The girls' early legends were all of the time that Dora. The time that Dora stood up to the tax man, the time Dora took no nonsense from the minister. "For once I spoke out." Dora taking exception, umbrage, or the huff. Dora lashing out, Dora pitching into, Dora breaking down. Dora giving the dreaded news: "I had a good row." A good cry, a good row, a good set-to. Dora was, furthermore, convinced that if she pressed on kind intentions hard enough they would disclose their limitations; and in this, time after time, had proved herself right.
Dora had a vermilion dress with black buttons that she wore for housework. The child Grace was asking, "Why are you always angry in that dress?"
Dora scarcely knew how to flare. "In this dress—I'm always busy.
Not angry, busy."
Grace disbelieved.
"I don't care to be told I'm angry all the time. I certainly am not angry." Dora was very angry.
Grace trembled. "I'm sorry."
"Do you have any, do you have the slightest notion how hard I work for you. I am never done." It was true, housewives were slaves. "Then I get this flung at me, I am told I'm angry. Well let me tell you."
Grace went outside to cry.
Dora was twenty-two and had dark sloping eyes and, despite dn addiction to boiled sweets, perfect little teeth. Caro wondered when Dora would be old enough for tranquillity. Old people were serene. You simply had to be serene, for instance, at seventy. Even Dora must be, if they could only wait.
Yet Dora was daily life. Dora shopped, and paid bills out of their small inheritance; and spoke with trustees about debentures. Dora took back The Citadel to the lending library and returned with The Rains Came\ played bridge at Pymble, and had a wealthy cousin at Point Piper. Dora went to tea, and wrote thank-you notes on her blue deckle-edged. She wore a smart silk frock of the colour known as teal, and had her long dark hair waved and rolled. On prize-giving night Dora exulted over the girls' bound anthologies and the silver cup Grace won for
Concussed by these realities and worse, refinement shuddered and turned away.
The two girls walked home hand in hand, not so much like lovers as like an elderly couple, grave with information and responsibility.
Coming home was to a Dora of outraged quiet, of which some cause must, sooner rather than later, be explosively made known.
Or to Dora disfigured by tears from the affront of some neighbour, now marked down for life. Meaning was acoustical, ringing out, shaping inflections, filling silences. Grievance was statistical: "They only invited me once in two years," "In all that time I was there to tea exactly twice." Any crisis of classroom or playground, inadvertently disclosed, might set Dora to shrieking, "Peace! I want peace!"—the house resounding to cries of "Peace!" long after the girls were in their beds.
Dora could always die, so she said. I CAN ALWAYS DIE, as if this were a solution to which she might repeatedly resort. She told them that death was not the worst, as if she had had the opportunity of testing. She said she could do away with herself. Or she could disappear. Who would care, what would it matter. They flung themselves on her in terror, Dora don't die, Dora don't disappear.
No, she was adamant: It was the only way.
How often, often, she drew upon this inexhaustible reserve of her own death, regenerated over and over by the horror she inspired by showing others the very brink. It was from their ashen fear that she rose, every time, a phoenix. Each such borrowing from death gave her a new lease on life.
Not that Dora was tolerant of the afflicted or of those who had gone under. "We could all give in," she said, when told that Miss Garside the librarian had completely dropped her bundle. The maimed or blinded were a resented incursion on pity that was Dora's by right: Dora's cry for help must drown out all others. She was quite taken up with her own disappearance, which loomed the largest presence in their lives.
The girls' early legends were all of the time that Dora. The time that Dora stood up to the tax man, the time Dora took no nonsense from the minister. "For once I spoke out." Dora taking exception, umbrage, or the huff. Dora lashing out, Dora pitching into, Dora breaking down. Dora giving the dreaded news: "I had a good row." A good cry, a good row, a good set-to. Dora was, furthermore, convinced that if she pressed on kind intentions hard enough they would disclose their limitations; and in this, time after time, had proved herself right.
Dora had a vermilion dress with black buttons that she wore for housework. The child Grace was asking, "Why are you always angry in that dress?"
Dora scarcely knew how to flare. "In this dress—I'm always busy.
Not angry, busy."
Grace disbelieved.
"I don't care to be told I'm angry all the time. I certainly am not angry." Dora was very angry.
Grace trembled. "I'm sorry."
"Do you have any, do you have the slightest notion how hard I work for you. I am never done." It was true, housewives were slaves. "Then I get this flung at me, I am told I'm angry. Well let me tell you."
Grace went outside to cry.
Dora was twenty-two and had dark sloping eyes and, despite dn addiction to boiled sweets, perfect little teeth. Caro wondered when Dora would be old enough for tranquillity. Old people were serene. You simply had to be serene, for instance, at seventy. Even Dora must be, if they could only wait.
Yet Dora was daily life. Dora shopped, and paid bills out of their small inheritance; and spoke with trustees about debentures. Dora took back The Citadel to the lending library and returned with The Rains Came\ played bridge at Pymble, and had a wealthy cousin at Point Piper. Dora went to tea, and wrote thank-you notes on her blue deckle-edged. She wore a smart silk frock of the colour known as teal, and had her long dark hair waved and rolled. On prize-giving night Dora exulted over the girls' bound anthologies and the silver cup Grace won for
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