Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister’s face. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. " "As in a dream. My mom doesn’t realize that I’ve got my own style. ’ ‘Damn you, answer me!’ Her eyes flashed. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. She flew up from her stool and faced the door. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet.
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