The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. ‘It looked to me as if he was playing games with Madame Valade,’ Lucilla said frankly. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. She was quite unconcerned. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. Stir a foot, and I strike.
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