Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. “I wish he had,” she said. Neither you nor your mother shall escape me. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. “Take Jacomo for a lover, Lucia. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. It's precisely what such a simpleton would do. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly.
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