She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. “Lucy Albert, sir. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. I’m not to study, I’m not to grow.
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