Sheppard had been interred. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates of my conscience. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent.
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