"She's beautiful, Alan. She's been talking—I can't understand."
Her voice was soft; queer liquid syllables, queerly intoned. A voice like music; the wind in harp strings, stirring them to murmur—but it meant nothing intelligible to us.
But there were gestures.
I said: "She understands! She's trying to show us she understands—"
Nanette demanded: "Is she looking at me? Look, dear—I'm Nanette—understand? Oh, you can see—and if you can see, you must understand! I'm Nanette." She laid her hand on her own breast. "Can you say it? Nanette—"
The girl said, quite clearly, "Nanette!" And laughed with a low ripple of pleasure. "Nanette! Lea! Nanette! Lea!" She was indicating herself. "Lea!"
"Her name is Lea! Yes, dear, we understand you."
I murmured: "And at Bellevue—"
With quick hearing she caught the word. "Bellevue," she said. She had evidently learned it while there. "Bellevue." She repeated it, frowning. She made a gesture, meaningless, and sank back, huddled against Nanette.
Alan switched off the dome light. "We'd better get started—some one might see us." He drove on. "Keep on trying, Nanette."