“I don’t understand,” he went on, His mouth set, his eyes sullen, and she, in despair, tried to paint a picture of her mood.
“Do you remember my father’s aviary in Hampshire?” she said, “and how the birds there were well fed, and could fly about their cage? And one day I set a linnet free, and it flew straight out of my hands towards the sun?”
“What of it?” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Because I feel like that. Like the linnet before it flew,” she said, and then she turned away, smiling in spite of her sincerity, because he looked so puzzled, so hopelessly out of his depth…
—from Frenchman’s Creek by Daphne du Maurier
Oh to write like Madam du Maurier!