Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. Jackson?" said Wood, significantly. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. . . But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own.
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