Sublime

Pearl had understood the hierarchy: her mother’s real work was her art, and whatever paid the bills existed only to make that art possible.

Pearls would become Belle’s signature accessory. She wore them as a long rope, circled around her neck once or twice, with a third loop that hung far down in front, finished with a glittering ruby or two.

Single strand of pearls, wild, not cultured. (Worth it, she said. Only the wild ones had souls.)

An idea began to form in Pearl’s mind in wild golden loops.

Moody, who loved art, was watching Pearl and wishing – not for the first time – that he were a photographer, so that he could capture the way the light from the frosted-glass gallery ceiling hit her upturned face and made it glow.

this lonely aunt, who seemed to see, transformed into youth once again, the likeness, and very soul of her brother, in the fair, inheriting brow of Pierre.

A sister had been omitted from the text.

Pearl, for a moment, imagined herself transforming into a tree. Rooting herself so deeply on that spot that nothing could displace her.