Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. I know all about it. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. White’s boarding-house in Russell Square.
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