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She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. 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. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head.
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