“I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. It gave her joy to see them laughing, even though she was unsure of what she had done wrong. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. They walked past his old jungle gym set to a hilly park that dwelled sleepily beyond his house.
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