_She_ was real.

Real as sunshine and breezes and birds are real, as Worth and the puppies tumbling over each other on the grass were real, as all that is life-loving is real.

And not detached, not mistily floating, but moored to that very love of life, capacity for life, to that look she had awakened in the faces of the men to whom she was talking.

It seemed a paltry thing just then to wonder whether Ann was child of farmer, or clothing merchant, or great artist.
She was Life's child.

Love's child.