My, um, my curfew. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. They took their places at a distant table. My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage.
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