It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes.
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