’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. Do you know much of his background?’ ‘Only that he is, or was, related to the Vicomte de Valade. Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup.
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