I hid behind a tree when I could clearly hear the voices. When I peeked around the tree, I was shocked to learn that one of the voices belonged to an ...gly brown wolf. Wolves don't talk do they? I would have ran away screaming except I learned that the second voice belonged to pretty blonde wearing a red hood who was at least twenty years old. Her beauty attracted me so I decided to listen for a while."Who is that basket for?" the mean wolf asked."It-it is for my Grandma," the woman shyly. That much finesse I could summon. Reading Balzac and Stendhal had prepared me reasonably well for just such occasions."Belisar Freyman. You gaze upon a struggling writer, an unappreciated creator of what will no doubt some day be regarded as fine literature. For now, I eke out a living by various means, both fair and foul, though mostly foul, I reckon. I am likewise a lover of the fine arts."She smiled as her violet eyes glinted irony. "Modesty becomes you well, mon ami."We talked for some. More

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