“Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. Gianfrancesco was not ugly, in fact, perhaps he was rather handsome after all. After all, she was a consummate actress. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli.
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