that had pictures.

There was but one picture to "The Tempest," a frontispiece, but it
sufficed, and at the period when Rosalie believed the ownership of
the world to be vested in her father and under him in all males,
"The Tempest," because it reflected that condition, was the greatest
joy of all the joys the bookshelves discovered to her. She read it
over and over again. It presented life exactly as life presented
itself to the round eyes of Rosalie: all males doing always noisy
and violent and important and enthralling things, with Prospero,
her father, by far the most important of all; and women scarcely
appearing and doing only what the men told them to do. Miranda's
appearances in the story were indifferently skipped by Rosalie;
the noisy action and language in the wreck, and the noisy action
and language of the drunkards in the wood were what she liked, and
all the magic arts of Prospero were what she thoroughly appreciated
and understood. That was life as she knew it.

Rosalie's father, when Rosalie thought the world belonged to him
and revolved about him, was tall and cleanshaven and of complexion
a dark and burning red. When he was excited or angry his face used
to burn as the embers in the study fire burned when Rosalie pressed
the bellows against them. He had thick black eyebrows and a most
powerful nose. His nose jutted from his face like a projection
from a cliff beneath a clump of bushes. He had been at Cambridge
and he was most ferociously fond of Cambridge. One of the most
fearful scenes Rosalie ever witnessed was on one boat-race day when
Harold appeared with a piece of Oxford ribbon in his buttonhole. It
was at breakfast, the family for some reason or other most unusually
all taking breakfast together. Rosalie's father first jocularly