Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. She searched for it for many days that stretched into weeks before she gave up. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. There is some deep treachery hidden beneath his words. She showered after she heard the door shut and the cars pull out of the driveway. We’d soon cool that temper of yours. ’ As a matter of fact, I am not. ” Her mind diverged to other aspects, and another type of womanhood. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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