Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Can I please go home now?” “Honey, I promise you can go soon, but you have to fill out some paperwork before you go. Her belly was being touched, she felt her thighs caressed softly. When he was done she kissed his cheek tenderly. “FAIL!” she said.
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