The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. You must live for me. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. It is not for myself I fear. 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. “You will go and see her,” he begged. pgdp.
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