"Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. She was making it up. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. “I had thought to go on to Kandersteg,” said Capes, “but this is a pleasant place.
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