She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. It was Blueskin.
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