‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. “You’re so cute. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “All my dreadful scientific things,” said Ann Veronica.
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