It was autumn too when Mr. Henry came. Our roomer.
Our roomer. The words ballooned from the lips and
hovered about our heads—silent, separate, and pleasantly
mysterious. My mother was all ease and satisfaction in
discussing his coming.

[..]

Their conversation is like a gently wicked dance: sound
meets sound, curtsies, shimmies, and retires. Another
sound enters but is upstaged by still another: the two
circle each other and stop. Sometimes their words move
in lofty spirals; other times they take strident leaps, and
all of it is punctuated with warm-pulsed laughter—like
the throb of a heart made of jelly. The edge, the curl, the
thrust of their emotions is always clear to Frieda and me.
We do not, cannot, know the meanings of all their words,
for we are nine and ten years old. So we watch their
faces, their hands, their feet, and listen for truth in
timbre.

T. Morrison, The Bluest Eye