It was the largest room in the house, which was why it had been given over to the main business of the convent as a house of God. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. I almost wish we hadn't come. 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. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. I have no right to love you.
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