The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. But no more of that. It was a beautiful place that she had found, a round cave by a small stream. She held out her hand frankly. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly.
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