“Michelle, I cannot give you my blessing. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. "Call as you please, beloved girl," he cried, "I will not stir till I am answered. She would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the slightest hint that she was unhappy. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. She knew she was a monster and so did they. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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