She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte.
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