Mrs. Blaine opened her eyes and heard her son typing furiously in his room. When she looked at the clock she was struck by the early hour;
Paul did not generally type before the middle of the day,and here it was
barely time yet for coffee,it was fifteen minutes past six...

Marna Blaine was not quite three and forty; and although she had not aged in any wretched or glaring manner,she seemed to be getting a
faded look,a California addition perhaps.

Marna did not work in the middleclass definition,money did not mean for her more than the Trustfund she had had now for twenty plus years...

Really doing something in and for itself in this instance meant the extention of the Arts,or as it might be translated: charity now and forevermore...

It pleased her that son Paul  at twenty already showed signs of the
writer's profile,and had been typing for over three years...