Here again instinct guided her. 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. I worshipped women long before I found any woman I might ever hope to worship. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She drew a long breath. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. . “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch.
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