“I don’t believe there is one. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. ’ ‘Damn you, answer me!’ Her eyes flashed. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child.
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