" The young woman laid a finger on her lips, cautioning O'Higgins to silence. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. Not like my father. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. . To return. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life.
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