There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. I didn’t see everything last time. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. 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.
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