So I lied. I chose my words in order to keep as near to truthfulness as I could.
“No, Aunt, I have come to no harm. I am just the same as the girl who left you twelve years ago. My looks, why should they matter to you, Aunt? They are not my own. All that is just dressmakers and hairdressers and the people round me. I have grown to look like them there, but I am more like you and yours than you think. I have been so home-sick, Aunt. I have longed so longingly for this, just this, Aunt, just to come home.”
Her face had changed, her eyes searched mine wistfully now.
“You are unhappy, child.”
“No, Aunt.”
“Your husband?”
I felt myself turn pale as she held my head between her hands. What could I safely say? There was a look in her face that frightened me. Did she know after all? Had she heard?
“Aunt, he is a Frenchman, different from us.”
“But is he a good man?”