Almost had Martha won out. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. ‘Eh bien?’ ‘You are perfectly right, Melusine.
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