‘What you can do, Lucy, rather than make enquiries, is introduce me to this comte and comtesse. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. He looked at her guiltily. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. “Let me add too that I am thankful for your decision. Three little letters can’t make a bit of difference. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
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