” “It is hard to be distant from your own mother. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Her elbows were ready.
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