“No chaperone?” I asked as we watched the old river glide past.“I’m eighteen now, a proper spinster,” she said with a laugh. “My uncle may...not trust me, but I do not tell him everything I do.”She let me hold her hand, and we put the conversation back on the revolution.“Well, a young woman visited me last evening, a girl I have known for years. I asked about your tale, about British officers deceiving American women. She said it was true, that she knew of several cases, one in which a very young. She had decided to walk across the shining marble floor to the night reception. She had asked the pimple faced receptionist the suite number of miss Angelique Jonckers. And then she had walked over to the elevator.The cotton candy muzak drifted on air-conditioned wings around her head. She shivered inside her wet coat. Then she watched as the metal doors sighed open. The dark hallway yawned in her face. Hundreds of feet of deep dark red rug stretched under rows of dimmed spotlights.She stood. More

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