The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. She hoped to turn him off with the mention of Study Halls and detentions, as there were no such animals in 204 Martin’s world of high pressure academics.
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