Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. Melusine got to her feet and, tucking her shoulder under his arm on the uninjured side, put her arm about him to hold his waist, and thus contrived to take most of his weight. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live.
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