“Act three. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. E. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea.
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