One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. ‘Knowed it the instant I set eyes on her. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.
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