"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. And there's your liver. A hollow feeling opened up inside her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. ‘Dare I guess at the reason for your sudden interest in émigrés, Gerald?’ ‘Lucilla,’ barked Hilary warningly. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it.
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