‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. Sebastian's arms were about her, his fists pumping her stomach as she coughed forth saltwater from her belly and lungs. There was no answer. Silken open robes over full tiffany petticoats in a contrasting colour were, Lucy assured him, of the very latest Parisian design, cut by the finest French tailors. I don't know anything about you. The truth was impossible, indecent.
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