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. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. She was very pretty. I feel years younger, a man again. It was a beautiful place that she had found, a round cave by a small stream.
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