Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. He rested on one elbow. ‘I may have been only a secretary, but times are changing. They’ll face facts as facts, and understand. ” She had no way of retaliating, so she made a decision. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. “For me there is no second turn. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb.
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