But one glimpse of Blakely's mother was enough for me.

She had a heart of stone; everything about her was militant, uncompromising; her eyes were of a piercing, steely blue; the gowns she wore were insolently elegant; she radiated a superb self-satisfaction.

When she looked at you through her lorgnette, you felt as if you were on trial for your life.

When she ceased looking, you knew you were sentenced to mount the social scaffold.

If it hadn't been for Blakely and Dad, I should have died of rage during the first two weeks of our stay in Santa Barbara.
It was a cruel position for me, and it didn't make it easier that before we had been there three days the whole hotel was talking about it.