She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. Sheppard, fixing her glazing eyes upon him. But a biddable girl. Her little white hand stole across the table. The Pursuit. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Her husband finally relented. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. It was a huge stone placed there by some workmen occupied in repairing the structure.
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