That summer, they both headed for Europe. My mother went to England to take literature courses at Oxford, and my father went to Paris to paint. In late July, with a three—day break in her studies, my mother went flew to Paris to absorb as much culture as she possibly could in seventy—two hours. She carried along a new copy of Great Expectations on the trip. After the sad business with my father, she hadn’t had the heart to read it, but now, as she sat down in a crowded restaurant after a long day of sightseeing, she opened it to the first page and started thinking about him again
.After reading a few sentences, she was interrupt by a maitre d’ who asked her, first in French, then spoken in broken English, if she wouldn’t mind haring her table. She agreed and then returned to her reading. A moment later, she heard a familiar voice.
“A tragic life for poor dear Pip,” the voice said, and then she looked up, and there he was again.