A sense of loss was amongst us. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. She traced him by his scent. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. Lucy changed into her Goodwill jeans and sweatshirt, plastering her hair down with an elastic band and securing it under a tight hood. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. You don’t understand the fix I am in. . Lost ground must be regained. ‘Merci, dieu. .
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