"Relating to the father of the boy—Thames Darrell," supplied Jonathan. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. Lucy spoke once they had turned the corner. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. “Yeah,” Shari nodded enthusiastically. ‘What’s to do?’ ‘Valade is here.
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