“He is handsome, isn’t he?” Farah asked conspiratorially. “And, despite being a bit phlegmatic, he really is charming at times.” “As charming as a typhus epidemic,” Millie quipped into her teacup. Blackwell’s book seemed to give a strangled snort. “Oh dear.” Farah’s golden brows, a touch more golden than her pale hair, drew together. “Are you cross with him?” “Of course she’s cross with him,” said the book. “He’s an idiot.” “Are you reading, or having this conversation with us?” Farah asked her husband.
