"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. For so far she had kept it uncashed. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. ‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. She had never seen so much food in her life as she saw at her own wedding feast. They would arrive sometime in June. They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. It depresses one, you know. The moral right of the author has been asserted. She shook her head.
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