She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. ‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped. But next moment, Captain Roding put up her back. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. Her little white hand stole across the table. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. Their faces had bite marks that were hers. Most subjects of any depth were taboo between them, especially when they were in his convertible. So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. This way, Sir Rowland.
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