She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. . Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt.
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