He got out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before she could open the door. It's two hundred pounds. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. "You're only twenty—not legally of age. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all.
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