Indeed, time has softened the memory of Constance’s face to such an extent that these lines now seem to represent her entirely. A dark hole that you might stare into and accidentally fall down.

In her bedchamber Agnes rests the broken frame upon the dresser and takes a gown from the press. Its dark shade calms her. Black: always ordered and neutral.

Reliable.

She notices something misshapen lying at the base of the cupboard. Her reticule. She chucked it hastily aside after the policeman’s visit, but it had rained that day; she ought to have turned the bag out in front of the fire. Bending, she tuts to see the material is pocked with water marks. When she untangles the strings and opens it, it is even worse; a mouldy smell assails her nostrils.

‘No, no, no.’ Flames of rust lick the blades of her scissors, still nestled inside. She owns another pair, but these ones are special instruments – they do not come cheap. As for the silhouette she cut of the naval officer in the park, it is utterly ruined: limp and turning to pulp at the bottom of the bag. She blows out her breath. At least it was not a good likeness to begin with.

Frustrated, she throws the bag to one side and continues to dress. Her old governess always accused her of being easily distracted, and here is the proof: a smashed frame, rusting scissors and a ruined silhouette – all in one morning. She never means to abandon tasks. But there is so much pressing upon her mind. More than it can possibly contain. It is only natural that certain things should … slip out. Since her spell of illness it has only become worse: sometimes a whole hour will pass by without her even noticing.

She fastens her hair. It is an unpleasant surprise to see the woman in the looking glass. The fine bone structure that Montague praised as ‘delicate’ now only serves to make her look drawn. And then there is that grey streak in her hair; a vivid shock down one side like the blue band in a magpie’s wing. That came after the pneumonia, too. She has still not grown accustomed to it.

Her eyes dart to the broken frame and to Constance’s shade. Her dead sister has smooth, unwrinkled skin and her hair colour is without variation. All the spikes and bristles of her character are concealed safely behind black lines. She looks almost amenable in this form. It goes to prove that the silhouette really is the kindest form of art.

Back down the staircase to the accompaniment of another mournful, weary sound from the treads. Mamma remains just as she left her, peering through her spectacles at the fire.