"Now don't you go imagining things, Jane, my dear.

I used to be just like that, and your father would say, 'Now, Alice.'" Her Grace raised her head.

Her eyes were a little tired.

She looked from her son to the clouds, and then back again to her son.

She was remembering her own early days, the rich glowing colour of her own American country, the freedom, the space, the honesty.
"I guess you're tired, dear," said her mother.