” She smiled, sure of herself beyond any pretending, into his troubled eyes. She rode him gently. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. My heart cannot take it. I don’t know. ’ She tries every way of earning a living and fails. .
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