An Impossible Impostor (Veronica Speedwell, #7)

by Deanna Raybourn

It was astonishing, I mused, how often people claimed to be honest when they were simply making a virtue of excessive rudeness.

“It is appalling,” I breathed. “I must have it.”

“I have never been inclined to like children myself,” I admitted. “I am far more content with butterflies and dogs.”

New York is a rich man’s town, you know. One simply cannot enjoy it in an impoverished state.