150 “Homely. . ” “And you knew, of course, that we were old friends?” “Indeed!” “Lady Ferringhall, I love your sister. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She did not think for one moment what interpretation he might put upon the word “lover. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend.
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