Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. “For one thing I am going to marry David Courtlaw. A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. “Suppose, for example, I go to this dance?” “You won’t. Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room.
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