“Too much sensibility and too cold a heart. I secured the dog after he had wounded me. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. And here against a wall were the plumtrees. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. ’ Lucilla gaped. You denied it at the time—but unfortunately I have proof.
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