But it's French manners, I suppose. She did not bother with the backpack despite its due tomorrow status. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her. 9.
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