Whereas she, Lucie, had no such prospects. A home. A happy family life. Her train of thought briefly derailed. Odd, because it shouldn’t—what Barnes said was only true. She was not in possession of the attributes that enticed a man, such as the softly curving figure and gentle eyes of Miss Barnes, which promised all the domestic comforts a husband could wish for. No, she was a political activist and rapidly approaching the age of thirty. She was not just left on the shelf, she was the shelf, and there was not a single gentleman in England interested in her offerings.
