EIGHT
December, 1919
Naturally, having won the argument, I spent much of that night agonising over it. What if I was being foolish? Should I tear that page out of my notebook and throw it away? Would I know if I was being a silly girl? I was fairly certain that I had never been infatuated before, so how could I tell? The butterflies disturbing my sleep belonged to my familiar anxiety, which always got worse in the middle of the night. I had no idea why anyone would ever consider butterflies in the stomach a pleasant thing.
It wasn’t too late to light a little fire and burn that address.
But then, would Uncle Joe have expressed the same concern if I had been a boy, telling him about the strange Roumanian girl I had met in a churchyard? Would it have been dangerous then? It might still h
