The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. It isn’t. Those who act wickedly bring misery on all connected with them. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. “What happened to your parents, Lucy? Is it all right if I ask?” Lucy looked at her with a soft gaze. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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