Anne Douglas Sedgwick

“ As they had talked last night at dinner.
“And you may be sure we heard all about you,” said Alix, smiling across at him. “All about Ruth and Rosemary and Francis and Jack. What a large family you are. It must be very happy being so many.”
“I say!” laughed Giles, “you have a good memory! To get us in our order, too.”
“But how could I forget when he told us so much! We saw all your photographs so often. Only one does not get so clear an idea from photographs. ”

“ Living?” His eyes came back to her. “I should rather say so. You see,” he went on at once, though Alix could not see the relevance, “she was so horribly cut up by his death.”
“Of course,” Alix murmured. “I am so sorry. I should not have spoken of him at all, when you have lost him. I did not mean to be stupid; unfeeling.”
“But, good Heavens! you're not stupid! Not a bit unfeeling!” cried Giles, and seeing her distress, his eyes actually filled with tears. “It's not Owen at all. We often speak of him. It's Toppie. And it's I who am such a dunderhead. You see, she's all that's left of him. ”

“ The horizon is so near, and even the sky comes quite close down.”
“Like nice, kind arms, I always think,” said Giles. “No, even in the Lake Country, even in Scotland, we don't get your splendid distances; or very rarely.”
“But it is very pretty,” Alix repeated. “I like the woods. Did you see the girl and the dogs a little while ago? I imagine that your sisters look like that.”
“Our dogs look like that. Ruth and Rosemary aren't quite so grown up. We have three dogs. Are you fond of them?” ”

“ We have our baths in the morning and the water doesn't run very hot for more than two. So will you have yours at night? Mummy does. Ruth and I like it best in the morning, and Giles doesn't mind if his is cold.—French people don't care about baths, anyway, do they?—Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes. Can you find your way down?” Rosemary added rapidly, her eye on the staircase where Giles was descending, “I want to speak to Giles.” ”

“ It's the great game at our school and you're nowhere unless you play it.—Down, Bobby, down! He's made friends with you already.—The mud will come off all right.—One can't mind mud if one has dogs, can one? ”

“ Bradley said: “Is your mother well, dear? How did you leave her?” This was the first inquiry about Maman she had heard, the first interest she had seen displayed. Giles, she remembered it now, had volunteered not a remark or question.
“She wrote so kindly,” said Mrs. Bradley. “She understood, I know, how much we hoped to see you here, how much pleasure it would give us. I wish she could have come, too. Owen so often wrote about you both, from Cannes. He said you made him think of Jeanne d'Arc, and your mother of Madame Récamier.—I'm glad you still do your hair like that,” said Mrs. ”