The boys resist the Japanese names by which the obasans of the camp address them as willfully as they renounce any identification with the fragmented body of the aged grandfather.

[…] they cling, like creepers or women, to the nearest support, to fly from that corroding ennui and listlessness, those tumults of the mind, which flit batlike amid the golden-groined ceilings, and cannot be dispelled by the lictor guard.

The day I was there, the Portland Head Light towered in glorious Instagrammability.

The parents[…]are getting ready their daughter for sale[…]praying her, and imploring her, and dramming her, and coaxing her.