In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong. 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. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. You cannot care for her. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness.
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