Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. She was by his side. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. He was profoundly stirred. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. ‘Dare I guess at the reason for your sudden interest in émigrés, Gerald?’ ‘Lucilla,’ barked Hilary warningly. It looks so French to be affectionate. I’m a soldier, you see. ” He waved the gun at Lucy who stepped back. . Come and see him, Lucia.
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