” “You may be sure of the one,” she murmured. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. “So what is John up to today?” Lucy asked with a weary smile. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends. Lucy was silent. “By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me.
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