She was shaking violently when she entered the side door of the house. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. 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. “Like what, Lucy?” She saw the panic threaten to overtake him. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. "That's all right. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. ‘You wish to die?’ ‘Not in the least.
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