Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. It’s no good hiding it any more. She had worn a long skirt that morning, and a roomier sweater that was slightly easier to handle than Shari’s low cut numbers. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. “Your mother was a Gypsy. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. ’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Back to Blaye, my girl.
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