” Lucy spoke up, “We used to call that ‘playing the coquette’. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. A fever of shame ran through her being. She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm. So, you see—’ ‘Do not say any more,’ Melusine uttered, flinging away and moving to the fireplace. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
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