Quincy nodded an acknowledgment and hurried out into the street before he could see her tears.
Once back in her room, Quincy flung herself down on her bed and let the tears flow. When Sir Ambrose nudged her with his wet nose, she rolled onto her side and wrapped her arm around his soft, furry body, holding him close against her chest.
She hated this weakness. It was unproductive. Messy. But from past experience she knew that giving in now was the only way she could hold the tears in check during the day until she was alone in her bed at night. She rummaged through the pile of clothes on the floor, searching for a handkerchief. She found a pair of white gloves instead. Borrowed from Sinclair the night he took her to the theater, never returned. They still carried his scent, a strangely pl
