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“Wouldn’t you feel awful in the morning?” “That’s what mornings are for, ma’am.”
Sometimes the world corrected itself, she knew this, for it had so many times in her past. She understood intuitively that it would not correct itself now, though.
“By the age of eleven I was becoming beautiful, so that people began acting strangely because of it.
“No dying in France.”
“Do you ever feel,” she asked, “that adulthood was thrust upon you at too young an age, and that you are still essentially a child mimicking the behaviors of the adults all around you in hopes they won’t discover the meager contents of your heart?”
Hers was a mixed fate, she thought: to know brilliance on sight, but never to command it.
