I was fourteen when he died.

I remember mother, too.

I was seven." Duane said, not looking at her: "It's about the toughest thing that can happen to a girl.

It's tough enough on a boy." "It was very hard," she said simply.
"Haven't you any relatives except your brother Stuyvesant--" he began, and checked himself, remembering that a youthful aunt of hers had eloped under scandalous circumstances, and at least one uncle was too notorious even for the stomachs of the society that whelped him.
She let it pass in silence, as though she had not heard.

Later she declined more tea and sat deep in her chair, fingers linked under her chin, lids lowered.
After a while, as she did not move or speak, he ventured to busy himself with collecting his brushes, odds and ends of studio equipment.