For that my father so stupide was in love with this Suzanne Valade, is it not?’ ‘Well, miss,’ temporised Mrs Ibstock, ‘we didn’t rightly know that then. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. Her heart in her mouth, hoping against hope, Melusine made her way back to where she had left the boy. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu.
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