She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. The fire still burned brightly. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone.
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