He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. His glances were hard to disguise as he scanned her periodically during class. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. "Has any one been here?" he asked. ‘Eh bien. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. You’re a lady. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. At once. None presented themselves to save him from that return. The country was partitioned in a similar manner. A wedding procession turned the corner. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci.
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