the thorn birds colleen mccullough

eopen that phase of their lives. He wanted her for a friend, enjoyed
her as a friend. Excellent! It was what she wanted, too. Only . . .
could he have forgotten? No, it wasn't possible-but God damn him
if he had! The night Justine's thought processes reached so far, her
season's role of Lady Macbeth had an interesting savagery quite
alien to her usual interpretation. She didn't sleep very well
afterward, and the following morning brought a letter from her
mother which filled her with vague unease. Mum didn't write often
anymore, a symptom of the long separation which affected them
both, and what letters there were were stilted, anemic. This was
different, it contained a distant mutter of old age, an underlying
weariness which poked up a word or two above the surface inanities
like an iceberg. Justine didn't like it. Old. Mum, old! What was
happening on Drogheda? Was Mum trying to conceal some serious
trouble? Was Nanna ill? One of the Unks? God forbid, Mum
herself? It was three years since she had seen any of them, and a lot
could happen in three years, even if it wasn't happening to Justine
O'neill. Because her own life was stagnant and dull, she ought not to
assume everyone else's was, too. That night was Justine's "off"
night, with only one more performance of Macbeth to go. The
daylight hours had dragged unbearably, and even the thought of
dinner with Rain didn't carry its usual anticipatory pleasure. Their
friendship was useless, futile, static, she told herself as she
scrambled into a dress exactly the orange he hated most.
Conservative old fuddy-duddy! If Rain didn't like her the way she
was, he could lump her. Then, fluffing up the low bodice's frills
around her meager chest, she caught her own eyes in the mirror and
laughed ruefully. Oh, what a tempest in a teacup! She was acting