Chapter 13

Yet often in the months to follow he was to ask that question: “Do you ever think of anyone but Rickey?” Sometimes he was to ask it with the desperation of despair. He was yet to learn that strength is always at the mercy of weakness. That Virginia Oliphant was of the stuff which braves storm and wind at the cry of a child or the bleat of a lamb. When they reached the house Rickey stood waiting for them on the steps. “I think,” he said, his head high, “that I owe you an apology, Mr. McMillan. I was in a beastly moo…