“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. Always at your service. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his.
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