” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes. 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. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. He wanted her named Mary.
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