“Oh, Marx,′ Amanda sighed. ‘You’re so melodramatic. So what if it’s this way or that way? When I was in convent school I used to stare out the windows at the clouds. I used to chase butterflies in the Mother Superior’s flower patch. Those clouds and those butterflies, they didn’t know secular from religious – and they didn’t care.’ ‘I’m neither a cloud nor a butterlfy,’ I snapped. ‘We’re all the same as clouds and butterflies. We just pretend to be something different.”
