The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He looked at her guiltily. The sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm. ’ ‘So you think she is an émigré?’ Lucilla put in before the incensed Roding could respond. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. The child was still safe. .
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