She had the loaded handbag of someone who camps out and seldom goes home, or who imagines life must be full of emergencies.
I began to ration my writing, for fear I would dream through life as my father had done. I was afraid I had inherited a poisoned gene from him, a vocation without a gift.
She was a pretty girl, with a pointed face and blue-black hair. But she was an untidy, a dusty sort of girl, and you felt that in a few years something might go wrong; she might get swollen ankles or grow a mustache.
She and Marie were Montreal girls, not trained to accompany heroes, or to hold out for dreams, but just to be patient.