She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci. They all left the room. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. Young people ignore them until they find themselves up against them.
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