Chapter Eighty-Seven
While Genevra combed Enid’s hair in the bedroom, opining offhandedly about the latter’s resemblance to a Botticelli, Rosella excused herself, then strolled into the sitting room, then sneaked out the door and sprinted down the hall, to an empty reading room, wherein she took, from behind a copy of a never-read, semi-fictitious guide to flora in the Dutch East Indies, a small sheaf of twine-bound papers, sat down at a writing-desk, inked a pen, and proceeded to add to the composition.