Mavis Gallant

On Marie's eight visit, Raymond met her at the airport with a skinny woman he said was his wife. She had dark-blond hair and one of those unset permanents, all corkscrews. Marie looked at her, and looked away. Raymond explained that he had moved back to Hollywood North. Marie said she didn't care, as long as she had somewhere to lay her head.They left the terminal in silence. Outside, she said, "What's this car? Japanese? Your father liked a Buick.""It belongs to Mimi," he said.Marie got in front, next to Raymond, and the skinny woman climbed in behind. Marie said to Raymond, in French, "You haven't told me her name.""Well, I have, of course. I introduced you. Mimi.""Mimi isn't a name.""It's her's," he said."It can't be. It's always short for something - for Michele. Did you ever hear of a Saint Mimi? She's not a divorced woman, is she? You were married in church?""In a kind of church," he said. "She belongs to a Christian movement."Marie knew what that meant: pagan rites.

There are a great many opinions in this world and a good half of them are professed by people who have never been in trouble.

She was a pretty girl, with a pointed face and blue-black hair. But she was an untidy, a dusty sort of girl, and you felt that in a few years something might go wrong; she might get swollen ankles or grow a mustache.

Spring had been the season for dying in the old days. Invalids who had struggled through the dark comfort of winter took fright as the night receded.

She and Marie were Montreal girls, not trained to accompany heroes, or to hold out for dreams, but just to be patient.