She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. ‘Say it. “Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. “Michelle said that your mom was a suspect because she ran away, visited some boyfriend of hers and then ran off into the night. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet. .
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