Ventura packed them hastily but with care into a trunk she had procured the day before from a shop in the town. It was a leather trunk. It had been well used by its previous owner and it was stamped with a coronet and the initials ‘P.J.’ She wondered if P.J., whoever he might be, had ever been as thrilled as she was with the lovely garments that his box contained.
She had a sudden wish that they could be the clothes that she ought to wear. A dress of silk billowing over a stiffened petticoat, the open sleeves trimmed with lace and the low-cut décolletage filled with lace to match.
Then with a wistful smile Ventura thought how awful she would look at the moment were she to wear a women’s dress. She was far too thin. The bones at the base of her neck stuck out prominently, her breasts were
