The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. "I cannot do it. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. “Then some of your family history is known to me.
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