" "But I never told you how the natives fished. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. Wood, in equal trepidation. I didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act. He returned, blue towel in hand. Let’s face it, she hates Missy’s guts. Over here men drink because they are lonely; and when they drink too hard and too long, they wind up on the beach. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. You were never married at all.
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