It’s October; but which October? One of those Octobers, with their quick intensities of light, their diminuendos, their red and orange leaves. My father is sitting in his armchair by the fire. He has on his black and white checked dressing gown, over his other clothes, and his old leather slippers, with his feet propped up on a hassock. Therefore it must be evening.
My mother is reading to him. She fiddles with her glasses, and hunches over the page; or it looks like hunching. In fact that is just the shape she is now.
My father is grinning, so…
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