“Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. I think not. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see.
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