“I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. We are doing a unit on World War II in American History right now, so maybe I am getting a little wrapped up in the unit or something, I dunno. Drummond nodded. You must know that. The lips were straight and pale, the chin aggressive, the nose indomitable. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. A girl—at my age—is grown-up.
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