TWENTY-THREE
I had always had a very limited tolerance for parties, in general. They could be tremendously enjoyable, of course. I loved meeting interesting people and chatting with old friends. I loved showing off my dancing skills, gleaned from a brief bout with finishing school. Parties meant glitter and glamour, champagne and laughter. But glitter and glamour could go on too long, ultimately being special varieties of light and noise, and I didn’t care to endure them for hours on end any more than I’d have liked to stand immediately under a fireworks show.
And that meant good parties.
Christmas, 1919, was not a good party.
I had been spared the difficulty of explaining myself, the night before, by the sudden revelation that Clare was just around the corner, listening, and had an aw
