Sublime

nisei

Grace Macaulay, then: seventeen, small and plump, with skin that went brown by the end of May. Her hair was black and oily, and had the hot consoling scent of an animal in summer. She disliked books, and was by nature a thief if she found a thing to be beautiful, but not hers. She didn’t know she couldn’t sing. She was inclined to be cross.

An air altogether of occupying a time not his own – might he be more at ease in an Edwardian dining room, say, or on a pitching clipper’s deck? Very likely.

liveried

‘Strange Fruit.’ I guess I’m just an old grouch.” My father

The visitor came in with the self-possession of a person who understands they cannot pass without notice, and judges nobody for noticing.