Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. ” “I know—” said Ramage, with sympathy. All I had to do was to piece them together. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. 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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