“Is Derry—hurt?”
“Yes, dear.”
She sat quite still, only her fingers stirring, drawing the silken tassel on her girdle back and forth, back and forth.
“Is Derry—dead, Hal?”
“Yes, dear.”
She let the girdle slip from her fingers, lifting her hands to push back the weight of hair from her forehead with a small sigh, like a tired child.
“I think it’s just some mistake, don’t you, Hal?”
“I wish to God that I could think so.”
“Well—but what made them think it was Derry?”
“He had letters—cards—initials on his cigarette case.”