Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. “I’m just in time to say good-bye before I go, father.
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