“I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. Bête, she told herself fiercely. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. She was nearly dead. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. And now she had sent Jack away. ’ ‘How do you know?’ Lucilla repeated, almost as sceptical as her intended spouse. He walked her home.
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