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I might have known it. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. He looked the boy over with interest. You’re not to go. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. ’ Lucy was silent for a space, once again wearing that inscrutable expression. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away.
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