She could not say who, not yet. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “What can one say?” she exclaimed. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. ‘Why does this person say you are mad?’ ‘Because I am risking having my head blown off,’ Gerald answered cheerfully. She felt that she became more familiar with the floor during the time that he stayed than with any particular person. “Are you feeling okay?” “Just fine.
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