I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. He laughed. “Is that a challenge?” She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. . . He was tall and straight, and his expression was good. I rarely set foot in London these days. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her.
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