The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Claire-Louise Bennett Reads Maeve Brennan

The New Yorker: Fiction

CHAPTER

Hubert's Love for Rose and the Curtains

When Rose was asleep her face looked solitary, and when she was awake she looked lonely. Hubert could not reach her solitude, and he could not destroy her loneliness. One evening after tea he asked her if she had mended his socks. They were still sitting at the table, the shaky round table in the room with the green net curtains. She said: I forgot to do your socks. Isn't that just like me to forget the one thing you asked me to do? It's not all that important, Hubert said. He felt ashamed of himself. If he had left her alone, she would have eaten the cake; then she would have been happier. And now, told

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