The months that followed September spiraled downward. F. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. I shall never come back. Or run me through. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this to comfort you. I don’t know. Occasionally she would be missing a sock or a bra, so she took to storing those things in her gym locker.
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