She is a lot younger than George – forty-five next birthday – but already, like him, she is a survivor. She has the survivor’s typical battered doggedness. To judge from photographs, she was adequately pretty, as long as her big grey eyes were combined with soft youthful colouring. Her poor cheeks are swollen and inflamed, now, and her hair, which must have once made a charming blur around her face, is merely untidy. Nevertheless, she hasn’t given up. Her dress shows a grotesque kind of gallantry, ill-advised but endearing; an embroidered peasant blouse in bold colours, red, yellow and violet, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows; a gipsyish Mexican skirt which looks as if she had girded it on like a blanket, with a silver-studded cowboy belt – it only emphasizes her lack of shape. Oh, and if she must wear sandals with bear feet, why won’t she make up her toenails?