All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. Winifred instantly picked it up. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. But she was staring seaward and did not notice the offering. That's one of the troubles with young folks: they take themselves so seriously. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. The children made us slaves, and the men took advantage of it. “Turn me. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night.
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