Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. “You’re exactly as I remember you!” “Forever fifteen, remember?” She stepped closer to him into the light of the television screen.
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