"At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. ” She turned herself to one side and propped her head in her hand. “Not really. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. But once I started, Forever Fifteen seemed to fly out of me like a bat out of Hell, virtually writing itself.
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