A girl—at my age—is grown-up. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. “It spreads like wildfire. I believe he’s divorced. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “How old are you?\" He looked at her engagingly. ’ A sudden frown sprang to the fellow’s face.
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