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Why can’t I hide it, too? Meg thought. Why do I always have to show everything?
“I hate being an oddball,” Meg said. “It’s hard on Sandy and Dennys, too. I don’t know if they’re really like everybody else, or if they’re just able to pretend they are. I try to pretend, but it isn’t any help.”
“You’re much too straightforward to be able to pretend to be what you aren’t,”
“How do you know?” Charles Wallace shook his head. “I can’t quite explain. You tell me, that’s all.” “But I never say anything. You just seem to know.” “Everything about you tells me,” Charles said.
“You mean you read our minds?” Charles Wallace looked troubled. “I don’t think it’s that. It’s being able to understand a sort of language, like sometimes if I concentrate very hard I can understand the wind talking with the trees. You tell me, you see, sort of inad—inadvertently.
You don’t know how lucky you are to be loved.” Meg said in a startled way, “I guess I never thought of that. I guess I just took it for granted.”
“Why don’t you cry?” Calvin asked gently. “You’re just crazy about your father, aren’t you? Go ahead and cry. It’ll do you good.” Meg’s voice came out trembling over tears. “I cry much too much. I should be like Mother. I should be able to control myself.”
“My child, do not despair. Do you think we would have brought you here if there were no hope? We are asking you to do a difficult thing, but we are confident that you can do it.
