She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. He halted and put out a hand to stop Hilary. “Is it okay if I go to the Junior Prom with John Diedermayer?” She asked Cathy in a low voice. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him.
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