I would speak with you. . She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. “I will not rob you of your coffee, most dutiful of sisters!” she exclaimed. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. To-day is for the sights; the other three days—lessons. ‘I do not believe you. The theme was a masquerade.
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