His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. " "And me," insinuated Mrs. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. I never realized how fabulous all those homemade dishes were. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her.
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