“Do you know that boy very well, Shar?” Cathy Beck yelled in the general direction of the lavatory. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father.
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