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264 pages, Hardcover
First published March 12, 1986
"All the New Franklin women I had seen finally registered, and I could see not only how I looked next to them but how Augusta did: her hair was too long and too straight, and no woman of her age, even if she had that gorgeous hair, would ever wear it down, or be seen in town in blue jeans and manning shirts, or wear socks instead of nylons. And that was the least of it; what was really wrong was the look in her eye, lonely and defiant. Fierce - but with no one to back her up, and she knew it."
"Sometimes I wondered if it was right for Augusta to tell me the things she did, as we sat in the kitchen in the evenings. There was something illicit about the secrecy of doing whatever we pleased. I couldn't help wondering as I took walks around New Franklin alone what the town thought of Augusta, a single woman living by herself in a house too big for one person. I was just her niece, my grandparents grandchild; they said hello and saw right through me to my ancestors. Maybe Augusta was thought of as a person who knew where she belonged. She was George Streeter's girl, Augusta. But she was something else, too: unmarried, thirty-five - in not too long she'd be an old maid or something worse; already, I was almost sure, they considered her an eccentric."
"Augusta and my mother seemed, in that light, more like sisters than I had ever thought before. And I was like them - of course I was - but like didn't me and the same. I was partly my father, too, someone they'd never be. Maybe never even understand. Quieter than either of them, less direct. Thinking, I could feel myself pulling away from all of them, all my loyalties strained by differences that might never be resolved. I would never be any of them, or any adding up of them. For a moment I felt permanently alone."
"Sometimes I would stand in the drugstore for an hour reading magazines that I was embarrassed to buy and take home, like Mademoiselle and Seventeen. They made me almost unbearably conscious of being a girl. Someone was supposed to fall in love with me, and somehow I had inherited this terribly subtle task of making them do it, letting them do it, telling them to stop... exactly what they might do if I didn't stop them was never clear, which gave it a sort of wonder and horror, and I had no idea how I could ever be the cause of something so important."