” “Afraid!” “Yes. ’ ‘Not French?’ echoed Hilary. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. If my Mom found out, she’d kill me. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. This isn't your island, child; it's the great world. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously.
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