‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. And there was another matter. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. His frowning gaze came back to her. ‘Her purpose, if you will believe me, is to get herself a dowry so that she may marry an Englishman. None at all. He is coming here to tea. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. ‘I don’t want him having an apoplexy in this house.
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