. Part 8 And as she sat on her bed that night, musing and half-undressed, she began to run one hand down her arm and scrutinize the soft flow of muscle under her skin. She was a little paler than when she had come to London, a little paler and a little thinner. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. The Widow and her Child. There was nothing of the phenomenon in this. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. All the initial confidence in herself was gone; her courage was merely a shell to hide the lack.
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