It was not only Leonardo who had instilled in her this distrust of men. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. I cannot do it, David. How many nuns were there in England who might have occasion to spy on Lady Bicknacre’s ballroom? The presence of the French refugees took on greater significance. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. I'm as much astonished as you.
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