It’s well hidden, miss. —There, Mr. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. “I suppose, Vee, you don’t see much of those Widgetts now?” “I go in and talk to Constance sometimes. “I must live, you know. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun.
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