“The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men. It is better that you go away now, I think. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. He drew her closer. ‘That’s my pet name. " "Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry. We always go out to dinner on holidays. “I will have your true reason. Vite, I pray you.
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