“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. Then he was to arrest you and bring you home to me. But I had to know for sure. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter.
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