“You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. When she saw however that this man was a stranger, and obviously harmless, her expression changed as though by magic. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him.
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