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If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. “Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. She would not forgive me. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. It was a shame that they had made such a fuss, she thought as he arrived. As usual the substantive sister—Prudence—did all the talking for the pair; Angelina, the shadow, offered only her submitting nods. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks.
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