"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. That was the true marvel of it. You were content, and I came to thrive on your happiness. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. I hope that some day he'll understand how much he owes you. You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again.
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