“When one wants a thing more than anything else in the world,” she said with outrageous frankness, “one naturally wishes one had it. I did so. ” An immense gulf seemed to open between father and daughter as he said these words. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. “I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely.
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