. It never is. Here are all our harlequins and columbines of the spoken and written drama. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. He heard me; but he never came in to ask what was the matter. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas.
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