And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. That was the true marvel of it. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. ” “Would you like to be a boy?” “I wonder! It’s out of the question, any way.
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