“You’ll find a way,” I said. The idea of her as a secretary was ludicrous; what the hell was Devlin thinking? “A scholarship or something. It sounds like you’re good.”
She ducked her head modestly. “Well. Last year the National Youth Orchestra performed a sonata I wrote.”
I didn’t believe her, of course. The lie was transparent—something that size, someone would have mentioned it during the door-to-door
Man! You are being a naive moron! Dicing on other women? Disliking them if they are secure, or have another male's attention? Saying her sister told lies, and then telling them herself? Painting herself as a victim? You are suffering from male blind-spot.