Of course she did not lose her sense of humor (not necessarily to be confused with her laughing fits, which are crying jags turned inside out according to the shrinks).
While she gave face to the director, his subordinates, and her colleagues, she had no face left to herself.
After the stolidity of my childhood—the affluent Midwest of new Cadillacs, Negro maids, and wineless six-o’clock dinners […]
I love a phrase of Dizzy's in one of his later letters to Lady Bradford, whom he reproaches for her addiction to what we now call week-end visits to country houses: “the monotony of organized platitude.”
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