Coolly competent and in synch, that's how they thought her (like mother like daughter).
There was some truth to it. She had been born to a Canadian woman doctor and an unknown man. (God to be French! she thought, where a bastard heritage added mystery and cachet. Grey eyes and slim hips and mysterious dark lips the color of cranberries, a thin line of blue lip pencil making them fuller. It was a Marie Claire stereotype, she knew, but she longed for romance, a tub full of flowers, a harem knife.)
Growing up in a house without males also kept one cool. There was an art in restraint, in patience. She looked at life through a glass, looking down into its watery, wonderful depths, holding her breath.
Abandon wasn't in her heritage, and as yet she felt no longing for it.
She couldn't stand the feeling of anything touching her neck, it was like she couldn't breathe. Even in winter, however, she wore open collars and kept the covers down around her shoulders.
Everyone has her own peculiarity.