She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald. Wood. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. If I’d known, there would have been a different story. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered.
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