Ellen almost trips on the threshold in her hurry to get outside. Her classroom has three tall windows, each with a chip of stained glass crowing the top. She loves to work there in the late afternoons, composing lesson plans as the sun drizzles gold between the hanging plants, the last echoey voices of the children fading toward home. It seems so unfair, so hopeless. Sometimes she buys brightly colored stars and pastes them on each of the papers just because you're all nice people .
Looks count, and the right kind of clothes counts.
Two plus two equals four counts. The heads of Fritz and Mary-Margaret are just visible, and they could be the heads of any older couple, sitting side by side. They could be very much in love. They could be talking instead of watching TV, discussing Nixon's re-election, the situation in Vietnam, the weather, the supper they have eaten. That was a good roast , the man might say.