She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee.
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