The lad hesitated. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way. Slipshod; follow me. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. But Gerald kept to a casual note. She held out both her hands. “I might go home, I don’t know. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. 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.
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