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. ‘Parbleu, how you make me talk!’ ‘Your secret is safe with me, I promise you,’ Gerald said reassuringly. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. "I never wear false whiskers," went on O'Higgins.
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