For some time now, my aunt Mila’s attempts to reach my consciousness—programmed to reject her constant daily talk about the “unfeminine” nature of my busy bodyguard and private detective work—have been gaining success. I don’t know whether it was the psychological fatigue that had built up over many months, or whether I really crossed some critical age point, after which you want to do something calmer.
Though, if we think sensibly, I should admit that twenty-eight years isn’t an age for a woman of my type, and I’ll always have time to live a peaceful family life.