‘You were right, miss. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. Lucy snatched it up and put it in her pack. I don’t want to stop your singing. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She moaned as his lips caressed her neck, almost to where the dress met her shoulder. . .
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