Dear tyrant

I shall wear demure grey dresses, with neat white collars. No make-up, of course. And good sensible shoes. I shall smile all the time—the sort of earnest, unmeaning smile that makes other people simply furious- and I shall say, 'Yes Mr. Imray' and 'No, Mr. Imray', and be an old maid for ever.
That was Vicky Pallant's forecast of her life in the household of the grave-faced solicitor who had taken responsibility for her on her father's death. But time was to show she had been too ready to be pessimistic!