Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “Michelle knows!” Lucy stood in stunned silence for a moment, and then cursed. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. He had got here at speed by that means. How on earth does it concern you?” Annabel laughed hardly.
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