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Vera Parsley pursed her lips. She clicked her tongue. She drummed her fingers. Vera Parsley waited. Mostly she was good at waiting, although sometimes she grew impatient. After all, ladies
didn't wait, they were waited on.
She was floral-patterned, high-necked, stiff-coiffed. She carried a wooden basket everywhere, in case a gentleman might proffer flowers. She knew how to smile, how to curtsey, how to make fluffy conversation. She walked as though a
year's supply of Woman's Weeklies were resting on her head.
Vera Parsley withdrew four five-pound notes from the bank every Friday to manage her weekly outgoings. She remembered when only one would suffice. I
shouldn't be doing without, she thought, but everything is so expensive these
days.
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