A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. I called myself Anna. It’s no good hiding it any more. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy.
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