But even you cannot alter her character. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. ‘You’d do the same. ‘She didn’t behave in the least like an émigré, if these people are anything to go by. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. . Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books.
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