“About books, Auntie.”
“Whose books?” she pounced.
“Some writer, Auntie.”
“What’s she saying about her, eh?” She held me bent down to her. I
glanced at Kent Rehan. He was listening to us. I felt harried.
“About—oh—whether a genius—whether she was a genius——”
“Madala, eh?”
“Yes, Auntie.”
I thought I heard him sigh. And at that—why, I don’t know—I turned on
him. I was rude, I believe. I sounded silly and cruel, I know. Yet,
heaven knows, that that was the last thing I wanted to be.