Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. Once inside, he looked around, worried that his parents would suddenly cancel their trip and return home. Eric Vorsack still toiled at work. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. "And me," added Mrs. ” She sniffled. Wild on his guard against an assassin.
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