She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. ’ ‘But that would make her half French,’ Hilary pointed out. He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. It was wonderful. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large.
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