Others pulled hats over their noses, cowered in their seats, and feigned that all was right with the world. You could walk the city streets and with every blink you could take in a new sight of beauty so great that your heart would weep for it. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. Visiting? Dressed for it, certainly. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look as long as I live. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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