Shari’s head poked out of the bathroom where she had been preoccupied with preparations for her morning shower. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. It was true. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. Mr. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone.
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