Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “Earning a salary!” “You’re like a Princess in Exile!” he repeated, overruling her. ’ She sniffed and swallowed. Mr. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. “I find it very hard to write this letter. If so I shall have to leave.
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