Michelle’s eyes darted around, she refused to look straight at Lucy. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. \"Pleased to meet you, Miss Lucy. He kissed her deeply and hungrily.
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