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. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. My birth certificate was destroyed when the county building it was housed in burned down. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. But the morning brought courage again, and those first intimations of horror vanished completely from her mind.
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