It took Richardson no time to get reacclimated.

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.

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.

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.