Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. “Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. " "You are right, Sir," said the worthy carpenter, rising. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. "I didn't awake you, because you seemed tired. Anyone would be intrigued.
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