She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. 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. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. It dropped sideways and fell with a bang to the table. It was as though he were personally aggrieved. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. He and her father shook hands manfully.
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