’ She turned, her eyes narrowed. Her head ached with a hollow pain. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. ” She looked around for the voice around the Orchestra room, fumbling around with her books. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his.
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