“Turning away,” a gentle indulgence now in her voice, “it’s an honest reaction, isn’t it?” As ever, she did not pause for reply. “But it’s an indication nevertheless of what we’re capable of, it seems to me. We’re capable of turning away. We’re capable of despising the sight of something so awful, something so incongruous to the good order we prefer. The beauty we prefer. I mean, Marilee,” she added with a huff of breath, “suffering.” She made the word itself sound like a fashion faux pas: like white shoes after Labor Day. An ill-fitting Guy Laroche. “Honestly, Marilee. Who wants to gaze at
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