” There was a strange look in her face, the look of a frightened child. Not entirely. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. The period of repression was over. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights.
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