This book lacked any depth or warmth. It seems to be Lucy Barton's jot notes of her life, with Dr. Seuss-like writing.. "I waited quite a while, quite a while I waited."
If I change a few words around in this paragraph I swear the author was talking about me:
"By the end of one hour her face looked like it had fallen the way white clay loses its shape when it's not cold enough, that is the image, that her face had dropped into a strange shape from fatigue, and at the end of three hours it seemed even more so, as though her white clay face was almost trembling. It took everything out of her to teach that class read that book, is what I am saying. Her face was just ravaged with fatigue."