"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. ” She sniffled. “Very well,” he said. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. She reached for the door handle. ’ He could just see the glare. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine.
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