His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. ‘Parbleu, how you make me talk!’ ‘Your secret is safe with me, I promise you,’ Gerald said reassuringly. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United States. ” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. 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. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen.
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