Delia’s veiled hair was like a crown of glory in the sunlight. Lang admired her a moment longer and then looked back at Rilla. Her face was still turned to the crowd. Some wisps of hair had come loose from her chignon and feathered her cheek in the gentle breeze. The sleeves of her dress moved against her arms, and the hem of her skirt flirted with her legs. In a sudden flash, he saw it. She would never be the beauty Delia was, but she had grown. She’d changed in subtle ways. “Aren’t you hungry?” She looked back at him. He shrugged. “I guess. I’ll go over and eat…