I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. This double buffetting had sharpened her shrewdness and insight. She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. “Was I that bad?” He asked. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. 1.
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