If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. . ’ ‘Bravo,’ applauded Lucilla, clapping her hands. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. Lucy dug out an old light gray cotton miniskirt that had shrunk on Shari in the wash. Sheppard. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. ‘Deaf? Deaf? I’ll have you know, miss—’ ‘Do not have me know anything,’ interrupted Melusine crossly, and digging into her habit, produced the fateful dagger that had cut Gerald’s hand.
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