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He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. My late husband, I mean. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. ‘Take this. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Something has changed her tremendously.
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