“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. Not if I read her aright. She walked through the walls. As usual the substantive sister—Prudence—did all the talking for the pair; Angelina, the shadow, offered only her submitting nods. ‘I will not, if you will assure me that an imbecile is a better marriage prospect than a starving pig. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting.
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