TWELVEJason Leigh came down the stairs at the parsonage. He was whistling the odd haunting tune of a German folk song. He had heard it last in a very strange place indeed. He whistled it now, and the words went through his mind:
On Sunday morn when I go to the church,
The false tongues stand and talk in the porch,
Then one says this, and another says that,
And so I weep, and my eyes are wet.
Oh, thistles and thorns they prick full sore,
But a false, false tongue hurts a heart far more,
No fire on earth so burns and glows
As a secret love that no man knows.
There would certainly be a considerable stabbing of tongues over Valentine’s broken marriage. Rough on Gilbert, but any man was a fool who married a girl who had nothing to give him. And if he didn’t know that she had nothing to
