‘Why did you bring him? I hate him. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. “Very well,” said Manning. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait.
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