His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. “Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. She had not anticipated such a response from her classmates, but knew to be drawing them with her self-consciousness as if they were bees to pollen. She had often wondered if Hoddy would ever go back to it. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. This also struck her as odd.
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