John knew everybody, it seemed. Her gown was minimalist compared to those concoctions of boning and lace of long ago, she reflected, but that did not stop it from getting caught on 134 brambles and twigs. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. Disillusion stands in one doorway of our house and Mockery in the other. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. She backed away from him.
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