‘Aye, miss, like a shadow. Who is it?” “Your brother Mike!” Michelle chirruped, sounding uncannily like her mother Diane. He grasped Lucilla’s elbow. ‘Wait! No time for that. His age was not far from fifty. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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