" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. ’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. .
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