Wood's charms equalled your description. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely. “Do you know that boy very well, Shar?” Cathy Beck yelled in the general direction of the lavatory. A pair of startled blue eyes looked up into his. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love.
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