‘But if there is one, how in the world did this mystery lady of yours know of it?’ ‘That, Lucy, is precisely the point that has been exercising my mind,’ Gerald said, turning his eyes once more to the group of French exiles in the alcove. Pray, walk in. Only an undermaid I was then. At least here she was safe. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. Had she expected to wed Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He must find out more. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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