They were really very nice about it — which made it worse, you know — writing her to say how, while it wasn’t a great fit for them right now, they were very grateful for the chance to consider it, and had every hope her timely study of Polish cinema between the wars would find a lucky publisher extremely soon. (Were they taking the piss out of her? With the “timely”? The “extremely”? Nearly seven years on U.S. soil, still their sarcasm eluded her.) She had spent the springtime in a panic. Holed up in her quarters, guzzling cognac before noon.