“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. She replied softly. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. We don’t want things to happen. “You have a boyfriend! That’s fine by me, it’s your business, but you’d better stop sneaking around because Sheila’s got eyes in the back of her head!” He heard Sheila utter a loud percussive blast of a snore from the master bedroom.
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