If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. “Did they ever try it for themselves?” He wrestled his chin between her thighs as she tried to squeeze her legs shut upon his ears. 75 “Lucy’s going to Prom with John Diedermayer?” Cathy nodded emphatically. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed.
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