Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway.
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