” 109 < 15 > AN AFFAIR TO FORGET, 1965 “What was your real Mom like?” Michelle asked when they were walking to school the next day. 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. “That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. Certainly you have a reason.
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