“Are you going to the Vorsack’s for dinner tonight?” “Yes, I think I’ll stop by. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. 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. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. It is so difficult.
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