After having her face slapped until her cheeks were on fire and her arms pinched until the bruises were purple against her skin, Azalea did her best not to antagonise her aunt.
Now, hurrying along the passage which led to the Library and carrying the sandwiches and drink which constituted the General’s invariable night-cap, Azalea wondered what it would have been like if she could have had a new gown and attended her uncle’s party.
She knew from the invitations that only a small number of younger guests had been invited, and those were in fact either officers or the sons and daughters of families which her aunt considered of social importance.
“If I had been having a party,” Azalea told herself, “I would want to ask my friends – my real friends.”
Then she remembered that she was never
