Mary Lucia was branded “the earliest riser and the best at keeping up with her chores” by the formidable Sisters at the orphanage. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. The sharp point of the sword at the girl’s throat bit sideways. Take it, if I die.
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