By Belva Plain
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He'll break her heart. " So violently did she brush her hair, her scalp stung. He'll break my heart? No, it's you who's doing that, franctne, you. " Gerald had asked. "Because Francine likes it," she had explained. Her real name was Frances; she was of French extraction some four generations or more ago, and even though she couldn't speak a word of the beautiful language, she loved to appear French. Probably she felt that Frenchness went along with her beauty. Hy's indignation mounted. Every irritant, every grievance that naturally accumulates among people living together under the same roof, all the stifled and relatively trivial offenses, rose up now to flood her mind.
Hy pulled the desk chair to the window and sat there dumbfounded. "What have you really got against him, Francine? All right, so you haven't been enthusiastic about him, and that's your privilege, but why so vehement? " "He'll break her heart, Jim, that's why. Gerald's a chaser. I see it. I feel it in my bones. Right now he's struggling to get ahead, but once there, he'll drop her. I don't trust him. He'll chase after women, and women will chase after him. He's too gorgeous. He ought to be in Hollywood.
Jim! I'm talking about humiliation. I'm talking about heartbreak. He's not for her. " Hyacinth's heart hammered in her ears. Not for me? What do you know about him, or about me, either? You know nothing about my life. "She's so good, Jim. " As dearly as if she had been sitting down there on the porch with them, Hyacinth saw their faces: her father's pale eyes, so much like her own, reflective, looking off into the distance; her mother's darting eyes, bright and blue, with the two vertical lines between them that appeared whenever she was alert or emphatic.