I heard strange music and the flare of barbaric trumpets--what ?" Amory had snickered.
"What, Amory ?" "I said go on, Beatrice." "That was all--it merely recurred and recurred--gardens that flaunted coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons--" "Are you quite well now, Beatrice ?" "Quite well--as well as I will ever be.

I am not understood, Amory.

I know that can't express it to you, Amory, but--I am not understood." Amory was quite moved.

He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his head gently against her shoulder.
"Poor Beatrice--poor Beatrice." "Tell me about _you_, Amory.

Did you have two _horrible_ years ?" Amory considered lying, and then decided against it.
"No, Beatrice.