She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. Even the horns were easing into the concept and the woodwinds in the second movement were particularly well-orchestrated. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence. It is repulsive.
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