Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. “Lucy. And it’s like the petals falling from a flower. It is perfectly intrusive of me, and I quite see that you must be sick to death of running into such an interfering busybody all the time. Lucy did not move, but instead stared straight forward, her eyes focused on the desk where the presiding teacher on duty was supposed to be. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. These starlings varied in width, according to the bulk of the pier they surrounded. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade.
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