The Door by Magda Szabó:
Fury – and fever – blazed rose-red in her face, and she resumed her sweeping with even greater violence, as if she had a personal vendetta with the snow, which she alone could settle. Sutu and the handyman’s wife, she shouted after me, were bringing her food, enough for the whole street, so there was nothing for me to worry about. She hated being spied on; she’d never in her life gone in for hysterics, but if we nagged her enough she might experiment to see what it was like. Her words were drowned by choking, followed by a fit of coughing, then she turned away. Those days she never had Viola with her. She said she didn’t have time to run around with him, and it wasn’t good for a dog to stay still; so I should take him home, into the warmth. There was no need for him to catch a cold as well.
Post a Comment