Now it is—’ ‘What are you doing still here, missie, that’s what I’d like to know?’ demanded the man Trodger, sticking to his guns. Michelle and her father sat in the audience, Diane having chosen to stay home to prepare dinner. The militia were in already. The phone did not ring. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. But that possibility had been anticipated. 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. F.
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