’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. Relief flooded her. . If I am to die in the attempt, then so be it. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. They are not your children, they never were. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience.
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