by Devan Boyle Mrs. Witterly is of a very excitable nature, very delicate, very fragile, a hothouse plant. Nicholas Nickelby Or, seasonal habits of the highly sensitive. I sometimes refer to myself as a hothouse flower. In unkinder terms: fussy, a whiner. There’s a part of me that needs coddling, thrives under optimal conditions of heat and light, is sensitive in the extreme to its likes and dislikes, no matter how big or small. I need exact directions, a little handholding, an extra sweater, a handkerchief to sniffle into, the right kind of pants, information about the immediate future— when do we get to go home? will there be a place to seat? who is going to be there? Having no other option in the interest of my sanity, I’ve come to think of these predilections toward comfort as essentially positive traits, with positive outcomes. I fancy that there is a grace to my delicacy, the noble sheen of a wish for a better, more pleasant life in my constant need to monitor. If I’m …