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Through the years, Michelle had come to regard the Beaudan’s as her family. Not that she was related to any of them. Indeed, not that she had even been introduced, neither she to them, nor they to her. It was an intense sense of ownership, rather than a personal knowledge that informed Michelle’s affection. She was much too reticent to be so forward.
She had watched them with a fond regard, as she trudged up Ormond Street each morning, and wearily down again later that same afternoon. She admired their sense of beauty and design, acknowledging their apparent innate ability to match colour with line, shape with texture. She envied their restraint when youth and vitality toppled over into age and decay; their ability to see the beauty within manifest externally.
Next time she passed one of them in the garden tying up the sasanquas, Michelle determined to nod good-day.
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