The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. One was in the Indian Civil Service and one in the rapidly developing motor business.
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