Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. ’ ‘Oui, mais—’ ‘You are, without exception, the most unprincipled, the most unscrupulous, the most shameless, immoral, devious—’ ‘Pardon me, sir,’ burst in Mrs Ibstock suddenly, her tone belligerent, bringing the captain’s tirade to an abrupt halt as he turned to glare at her. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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