Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. Had this not been the case, he must have refused even to see his Frenchified granddaughter. ” He was strangely silent. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.
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