‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Her hormones were raging stupidly. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. I love you—unendurably. But you will, you will. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. She told him the story of her parents, her marriage to Iovelli, the loss of her baby, the kidnapping after the miscarriage. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. The day is already half over.
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