The smile had become a laugh. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. "Kidnapped, and sent to France by one uncle, it was my lot to fall into the hands of another,—my father's own brother, the Marshal Gaucher de Chatillon; to whom, and to the Cardinal Dubois, I owed all my good fortune. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. "No; I don't think I'd laugh.
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