Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. If he keeps his word, I'll keep mine. “Go on,” he said. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. But all those empty years!… My heart was hot. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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