The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. ’ ‘Oh, do they?’ Gerald said, sudden wrath kindling. Just then—I was nervous. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. .
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