"I love her already. ‘It is what my father intended. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. Give me this picture. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. The jolly part of it was that for the first time in her life so far as London was concerned, she was not going anywhere in particular; for the first time in her life it seemed to her she was taking London in.
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