Her he dearly loved, and he was confident that she would shine anywhere.

As it was clear to him that he had been handicapped by his early environment, so now he perceived that she was similarly handicapped.

She had not had a chance to expand.

The books on her father's shelves, the paintings on the walls, the music on the piano--all was just so much meretricious display.

To real literature, real painting, real music, the Morses and their kind, were dead.