Excerpt from What Manner of Man

It was a clear midsummer day. High noon was making havoc of subdued light and shade in Thayer's studio, and his sitter, who had been there since nine o'clock, was growing momently more impatient.

"You've always said you wanted me to come at the same time for the sake of the same light, " she said at length with more than a touch of lazy impertinence, while by a requested turn of her head she exaggerated to hideousness a lurking shadow in the corner of her mouth. "Too far? Then give me a photographer's prop, and stick me up against it." She moved her head carefully back, however. "What I was going to say, " she went on, "was that early morning light is emphatically not noon glare, and I'm worn to fiddle strings."

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