Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. That was the true marvel of it. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. ‘If you’ll have the goodness, missie, to move yourself out of the way,’ he said aggrievedly, ‘and let us at him, we might have a chance of doing just that. She even had books by H.
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