She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. In another instant, the collision took place. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. Danger, the most terrible she had ever faced, was substantially in this room. I’ll need you to go back to the barracks and fetch more men up to town. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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