They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. You are not a coward David, and you must not talk like one. Your life is like a funeral March. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. ‘Merely making a useful contact.
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