I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. ‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.
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