Heaven alone knows why. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. Been making herself at home all right. She shook her head. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. She let her mind run into dreams of that cloud paradise of an altered world in which the Goopes and Minivers, the Fabians and reforming people believed.
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