The nearest we have to a Henry James or an Edith Wharton of the East Coast's Wasp upper classes.

The nearest we have to a Henry James or an Edith Wharton of the East Coast's Wasp upper classes.

I'd been brought up on the Upper East Side in a WASP society, which was death on crutches.

Overhead hung a summer sky furrowed with the rush of rockets; and from the east a late moon, pushing up beyond the lofty bend of the coast, sent across the bay a shaft of brightness which paled to ashes in the red glitter of the illuminated boats.

She would search for him.
In the land that lay east of the sun and west of the moon.
But there was no way there.

And it's impossible for me to read Henry James.