" "You don't have to. ” “I MUST talk with you. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. Altogether different. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. She knew that babies came from the womb; her womb had fallen out with her baby. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. "That depends upon what you call educated. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. I mean to have you! Don’t frown me off now. .
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