Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Solomon Smith seemed to be Mr. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes. She led him up the long hall solemnly. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare.
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