With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. ’ ‘Comment? You wish to murder me?’ ‘No, I wish to beat you,’ he retorted. Your boyfriend. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. Even the teachers were getting restless, the seniors gnawing hard at the bit as graduation teased. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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