It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Not alone with her, that’s sure. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. Ann Veronica watched her and wondered about her. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way.
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