’ Dieu du ciel, but she was a fool. . I don’t care WHAT happens. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. . I told her it was the end. Shari regaled Lucy with soap operatic tales of boy-girl intrigues at the high school, then spoke of her aspirations for the future. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. Remember that I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, and I’m well aware of your identity. F. .
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