And I don’t expect you’ll believe a single damn word of the whole yarn.” In the sky one of those big flat-bottomed clouds moved enough to disclose the ghost of the moon—half-full and pale as milk. And something in my heart leaped up at the sight, half in fright, half in love. “I do though,” I said. “Every frigging damned word. And even if it ain’t true, Homer, it ought to be.”
