“Oh, not really,” Jemima said airily, because she didn’t want to explain she was looking for one particular volume of poetry that Ford had brought on the honeymoon – and what if it wasn’t here, and he had kept it in his bedroom? It would only make her look worryingly nosy.
“Just a novel, maybe, or some poetry,” she said instead, and it was not wholly a lie – she did need something new to read, now that her days were not dizzyingly filled with rushed wedding plans and she was not crying incessantly. She tilted her head at Clementine, wondering if the other girl was too clever for novels, and looked down on them as frivolous, compared to non-fiction. “I don’t suppose there’s anything in particular you’d recommend?”
“Just a novel, maybe, or some poetry,” she said instead, and it was not wholly a lie – she did need something new to read, now that her days were not dizzyingly filled with rushed wedding plans and she was not crying incessantly. She tilted her head at Clementine, wondering if the other girl was too clever for novels, and looked down on them as frivolous, compared to non-fiction. “I don’t suppose there’s anything in particular you’d recommend?”
