As usual, Lucy traced over parts of her experiences in her confidences with Shari, skipping lightly over her own 10 story as a pebble would over a lake. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten.
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