“Please forgive me, Lucy. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. Your Mom says to come downstairs for dessert. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime.
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