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But it had been the old man’s daughter all along.
Her jaw was tense. Her eyes defiant. And her spine could have taught steel how not to bend.
Even a love in mourning still had sparks in it.
It was as though someone had taken the case off the universe, and let the reader peer at the naked machinery that powered the stars.
“They don’t let you have anything whole, you know. If you don’t follow the pattern. You have to find your happiness in bits and pieces instead. But it can still add up to something beautiful.”
love could exist—could even thrive—quite apart from the paper forms of marriage and classifications of sex.
She had not known until he asked the question how deep ran her horror of putting herself once more under a man’s legal, financial, and emotional control.
Friendship, people would call it in public, even as they prayed silently their own daughters had no such friends.
Catherine wanted Lucy, but more than that, Catherine wanted Lucy to want her back. And Lucy wouldn’t, if she were still pining for the girl she’d lost.
Every generation had women stand up and ask to be counted—and every generation of brilliant, insightful, educated men has raised a hand and wiped those women’s names from the greater historical record.”
