Sheila found out. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. He raised her to a sitting position. "Put it under my pillow," he said. In the pause a door could be heard opening and closing on the landing up-stairs. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same.
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