Manuel Luna didn鈥檛 return the smile, but he sandwiched both Caballo鈥檚 hands with his own. Iwalked over. 鈥淚 knew your son,鈥?I said. 鈥淗e was very good to me, a real caballero.鈥? She had gone up to bed early, feeling that nameless stir of the spirit which can only find expansion in solitude. She wanted to let herself go, to be herself, and the presence of her family forced her to wear the carapace of convention. But having pleaded fatigue at ten o鈥檆lock, though her eyes sparkled behind her spectacles, she escaped from the cramping influence of the drawing room, and locked herself into her own bedroom with her thoughts and her glowing altar-cloth. She ran on breathlessly as she seated herself by that reclining figure with the waxen face. It may be that she talked to hide the shock she had experienced on seeing the altered looks of the young mistress whose roof she had left in the hour of shame. She had left her, refusing to hold commune with one who had sinned so deeply. The faithful servant had taken leave of her mistress in words that had eaten into Isola's heart, as if they had been written there with a corrosive acid. Chapter 1 My Education Barefoot Ted pulled me back into Mam谩 Tita鈥檚 garden, where Caballo was holding Scott and Billyand a few of the others spellbound. 鈥淵ou ever wake up in an emergency room,鈥?Caballo wassaying, 鈥渁nd wondered whether you wanted to wake up at all?鈥?With that, he launched into thestory I鈥檇 been waiting nearly two years to hear. It didn鈥檛 take me long to grasp why he鈥檇 chosenthat moment. At dawn, we鈥檇 all be scattering and heading home. Caballo didn鈥檛 want us to forgetwhat we shared, so for the first time, he was revealing who he was. 日本工口里番,日本工口里番h无遮拦,日本工口里番库无遮挡 鈥?BRUJITA!鈥?The soldiers were pointing behind us. Scott would never again linger in Dusty鈥檚 shadow, or any other runner鈥檚. 鈥淎nybody who has seenhim running fast on mountainous terrain in the last miles of a hundred-miler will be a changedperson,鈥?an awestruck trail runner declared on Letsrun.com, the number one message board for allthings running, after watching Scott shatter the record at Western States. Scott was a hero for avery different reason among back-of-the-packers too slow to see him in action. After winning ahundred-mile race, Scott would be desperate for a hot shower and cool sheets. But instead ofleaving, he鈥檇 wrap himself in a sleeping bag and stand vigil by the finish line. When day broke thenext morning, Scott would still be there, cheering hoarsely, letting that last, persistent runner knowhe wasn鈥檛 alone. The door opened softly, and the kindly face of the Anglican priest looked in. But that smile is strangely stirring. You can tell she鈥檚 having an absolute blast, as if there鈥檚 nothingon earth she鈥檇 rather be doing and nowhere on earth she鈥檇 rather be doing it than here, on this losttrail in the middle of the Appalachian wilderness. Even though she鈥檚 just run four miles fartherthan a marathon, she looks light-footed and carefree, her eyes twinkling, her ponytail swingingaround her head like a shirt in the fist of a triumphant Brazilian soccer player. Her naked delight isunmistakable; it forces a smile to her lips that鈥檚 so honest and unguarded, you feel she鈥檚 lost in thegrip of artistic inspiration.