There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. ‘Ah, grandpére. “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. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque.
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