Lucy inhaled deeply. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. She shuddered with relief as it seemed that Mike and Shari were still out and about. “I shall send for a policeman,” Anna said, “directly my maid answers the bell— unless you choose to go before.
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