There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. And she is very young, younger than her years. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. “Let me get you some water, Annabel. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. Oh! that Mr. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. Quilt was not long in following his example. The door opened, and a slightly overweight pretty blonde, an older, wiser version of Michelle, came into view. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance.
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