Kevin Chen, Martin’s father, was equally stately, his dark brown eyes bright with the fire of extreme intelligence. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. ‘We was of an age, you see, miss.
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