Hella looked about delightedly at all of it, the cafés, the self-contained people, the violent snarl of the traffic, the blue-caped traffic policeman and his white, gleaming club.

I remember when you were a boy you wished to make your fine new whip a present to old aunt Peggy, merely because she admired it; and now, with like unreflecting and unappropriate liberality, you would resign your beloved to a smoke-dried young sophister, who cares not one of the hairs which it is his occupation to split for all the daughters of Eve.

It took Richardson no time to get reacclimated.

But Faith's notebook — which I took for her coursework — was lying open on the coffee table. I picked it up out of sheer boredom. Instead of a linguistic treatise, I saw she'd written her self. Her anger at Mom. Her frustration with sisterdom.