‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. Senior year started with a whimper. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. "I've spoken. No tricks would serve. “I don’t believe there is one.
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