Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over.
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