A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. You have been burning paper, I see. Lucy didn’t seem like a teenage girl at all to Sheila and she knew it. By your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard's will, you are aware,—and, therefore, I need not repeat it, except for the special purpose I have in view,—you are aware, I say, that, by this will, in case your sister Aliva, died without issue, or, on the death of such issue, the property reverts to Constance and her issue. “She is living there now,” she remarked.
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