"That's my girl."

The knowledge that something was terribly wrong with his daughter, that she was the victim of some sort of neurosis, burst into Franklin Barker's brain.

Years of assuming the role of mother had filled him with an intuitive awareness that was alien to most men.

In a strange way the death of his wife had made him realize the woman in himself. Also that the urge existed in all men as well.

Having to convince one's daughter to throw her sweet-sixteen party that was a holy ritual around this part of the South was not a good indication of normality.

The death of her mother had affected her to a greater degree than Franklin Barker had ever thought possible.

The party would be his last hope to try and bring her to her senses. After that, if she didn't snap out of it, he would have to seek out professional help for her.

The hard part would be convincing her that something was wrong to begin with. She thought it was perfectly natural for a girl her age to be riding horses all day.

If she wasn't beautiful he could understand her choice to lead a reclusive life. But that surely wasn't the case at all, not at all.

Her breasts were large and uplifted, exactly in the same manner as her mother's, and her poised look gave her a regal air. Her face never dropped its mask, not even for an instant. You could never read her real thoughts. Her guard was always up.

Her mother could convey the same air of sensuous indifference. Her glaze of irony weighed on your soul.

It was a look that said now impress me. If you can't I will impress myself with whatever whim strikes my peculiar fantasies and desires.

It was a type of independence that when a woman revealed it men were intimidated. It was taken as an unfeminine gesture.

They could not imagine a woman having the courage to make real her own aims, that is, at least, without a man to guide her.