It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. That is why I am glad that she has gone to London. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess. ’ ‘That is not your affair. But it was of no avail. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head.
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