CHAPTER XI. Katy had sneered at her for a moment, their eyes locking. It was Ennison who for the rest of his visit was quiet and subdued. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. This foster child’s name was Mary Lucia Iovelli, and we have photographic documents of a woman who looks exactly like you, dear. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. But it's French manners, I suppose. Even when you've a knave to deal with, let your actions be plain, and above-board.
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