Chapter 41

He had written, too, “To my own Dian—with love—forever.” The pendant hung from a slender platinum chain. A beautiful thing, but Virginia knew she must not keep it. Or was she foolish not to take her happiness when it was at hand? When she reached New York she found the streets of the city wearing their empty holiday air. As her taxi whirled downtown, it passed churches out of which streamed those who had come to worship in memory of the Babe of Bethlehem. There were wreaths tied with red ribbons in the shop windows…