My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. She held out both her hands. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. “It spreads like wildfire. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation.
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