Then he went through into the kitchen, where Caroline was rolling out pastry on a cool, rose-veined marble slab.I mean, how can you not love that? Utterly? If you don't, I don't want to know you.
She was singing to herself, withdrawn. When alone she had a private life in which she sang Mozart at Glyndebourne; each morning, over the cooking or the dishes, she would re-enact her triumph, from the arrival of the elegant audience, to whose dresses she added a new rose, a new shawl, every day, to the final aria and rapt silence which followed it. She was not too pleased to be called back from her stage, and would not be interrupted in mid phrase. She motioned to Henry to be silent, and sang calmly and tunefully to the end of her passage, whilst he paced the kitchen from door to door, and then she made him a little inclination of the head, as though he should applaud, and said, 'Well, what is it?'
Also, I adore A.S. Byatt because she fucking hates Harry Potter, just like I do. Yes, yes I do.
The Complete Review - A.S. Byatt and the Heliotropic Imagination - A.S. Byatt at biblio.com