“Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. These were presently joined by a regiment of foot. Clarice loved babies as much as Lucia did and chattered about them day and night. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. A tall, clean-shaven man came out and walked rapidly through the room, exchanging greetings right and left, but evidently anxious to avoid being detained. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better.
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