She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. The novel danger of the situation enthralled him. As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses. “Yeah. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. We are not animals. ” “But why?” “He’s married—and, I believe, living separated from his wife. Thames Darrell, I've said, is at Mr. Forgive me, but you have been looking, have you not, for some employment?” “Quite true!” she answered. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean.
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