Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. These sisters moved in a grown-up world inaccessible to Ann Veronica’s sympathies, and to a large extent remote from her curiosity. All this torrent of misleading, spurious stuff that pours from the press. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. Too much blood has been shed already.
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