Fundvogel

Gwinnie, Gwinnie Briscoe: she was the whole point of this! Andrea would get plenty more letters from her, far more than she’d like—dozens, hundreds. One last drawer—there lay two letters, set apart, from her cousin Jan Olieslagers. She checked the dates: one, from Bermuda, was a year old, the other three years already—from Peking. She picked them up, tore them halfway—then her hand stopped; absently, she slipped the letters into her handbag. She passed the mirror, glanced at it instinctively, turned away quickly. No, no, she didn’t want to know how she looked now. Just this morning, she had stood here, a good hour, carefully preparing herself, with every art, for Parker Briscoe’s visit. But mirrors—mirrors were everywhere: in the hotel, she could stare at herself for hours, if she wanted to bid farewell to Andrea Woyland, to—herself.