The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Claire-Louise Bennett Reads Maeve Brennan

The New Yorker: Fiction

CHAPTER

I Married Rose, Not Her Helplessness

Hubert knew it would be a bad thing to encourage her in these moods. Her mother had warned him that Rose was inclined to brood over nothing. The thing to do was not to take her seriously, and not to admit that there was anything wrong. He sat down on the floor in the back sitting room, with his back to the wall under the window, and told her to look around to her house. She looked curiously at the linoleum other people had admired and taken care of. Hubert said gloomily: I'm afraid we'll have to get used to it. Oh, it's not that I don't like it, Rose said. I love looking around like

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