I’m currently deep into The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt, possibly my favorite book read this year. I stumbled upon this passage:
“…why hadn’t my mother married someone like him –? Or Mr Bracegirdle? somebody she actually had something in common with — older maybe but personable, someone who enjoyed galleries and string quartets and poking around used book stores, someone attentive, cultivated, kind? Who would have appreciated her, and bought her pretty clothes and taken her to Paris for her birthday, and given her the life she deserved?”
Why hadn’t I?