“Please don’t,” she said. It was the beginning of June. 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. The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould. He was asleep. She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet. “Shari told me.
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