Michelle was laid onto the back seat, her head cradled in Lucy’s lap. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. She could have kissed Cathy.
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