Half a minute, Vee. I will do my utmost. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. ’ ‘Yes, I know,’ Gerald put in with an irrepresssible chuckle. ” She said.
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