If I had known that you had meant to talk like this I wouldn’t have come here. An ordinary type, of course—” Mrs. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. He unhooked it from the front clasp. Twenty guineas, mind. He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. She had to explain about and pay off that forty pounds. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. ’ ‘Fancy my old pa thinking you was a French spy.
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