The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. You know you don’t mean it.
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