She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. Tombs were desecrated, beautiful statues toppled, and the colorful shops that she had been enchanted by along the canal had been closed or burned. The attempt was unsuccessful. “Quite right,” she said. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. “Very likely. ’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. ’ ‘You see? Not to be trusted,’ Hilary uttered disgustedly. It jars with all my ideas. ” “Well”—her breath failed her for a moment. Let him not bear the weight of my punishment.
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