“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. That paper must be signed, or I take my departure. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection.
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