As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. She would never again be lonely. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft.
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