If you knew your aunt were alive, if she expected you, that would be different. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. Remember, if there's anything you'd like to get off your chest, doctors and priests are in the same boat.
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