’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. The lady had disappeared. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “Shhh. As for that, what man ever had? "That's a remarkable young woman," he offered, merely to note what effect it would have. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. No, I thank you. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. Wood, popping her head through the window. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth.
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