It isn’t. ” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. A modest drinking bout which had its windup in a fan-tan house over in Kowloon, where O'Higgins tussled with varying fortune until five in the morning. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. We were only—les autres. In Larry’s old Cadillac sedan, she sat in the backseat as Larry drove and Cathy sat beside him. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good.
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