A young woman with a white badge on her arm stood and counted the sections as they entered their vans. She confided in me yesterday. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. “Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear. This foster child’s name was Mary Lucia Iovelli, and we have photographic documents of a woman who looks exactly like you, dear. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly.
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