‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. . I guess we could go for a ride. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering.
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