Sometimes she cried and said she did not want any of you to see her again, because she was only a hideous, little, thin, yellow old woman.

When I was very little she told me stories about New York and Fifth Avenue.

I thought they were not real places--I though they were places in fairyland." Betty patted his shoulder and looked away for a moment when he said this.

In her remote and helpless loneliness, to Rosy's homesick, yearning soul, noisy, rattling New York, Fifth Avenue with its traffic and people, its brown-stone houses and ricketty stages, had seemed like THAT--so splendid and bright and heart-filling, that she had painted them in colours which could belong only to fairyland.

It said so much.
The thing she had suspected as she had talked to her sister was, before the interview ended, made curiously clear.