“Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. \" Michelle agreed, staring into the clouds. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it.
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