Wood laughed louder than ever. 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. It wound around a small manufactured lake. "Good work. Basically, I was raised in daycare. “And now, look at us! See what we have become. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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