She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Then he had gone away. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him.
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