Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. “Soon enough, John. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone. “I’ll get a towel. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. " "I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers," observed Wood. “Your little flag of pride must flutter down with the rest of them, Ann Veronica.
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