The last few days have been difficult. I had to work seven days straight, then today (my first of two precious days off) had to work two hours in the evening, and it so happened that these were the two hours marked off for talking with a dear friend whose son goes to bed at the beginning of them and who goes to bed herself at the end of them. One of the residents has a pimple in a place not ordinarily seen which she earnestly desires to show me, another is upset at living with "low-functioning" people who cannot cook for themselves (and is also upset at not being allowed to cook here), and a third is jealous over the second's accomplishments. We assistants seem to interact on a similar level.
But today's mail brought a used copy of The World of Mr. Mulliner, and it has already soothed my soul.
The man in the corner took a sip of stout-and-mild, and proceeded to point the moral of the story which he had just told us.I may or may not have laughed in a manner ill-suited to a house where others slumber.
"Yes, gentlemen," he said, "Shakespeare was right. There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."
We nodded. He had been speaking of a favourite dog of his which, entered recently by some error in a local cat show, had taken first prize in the class for short-haired tortoiseshells; and we all thought the quotation well-chosen and apposite.
