"You can do so. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French. I can't spare you at present. She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. “Her husband was a county councillor, and she has a niece who comes to see her in a carriage. ‘Believe it or not, I do it for pleasure.
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