“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. The proceedings of this faction were narrowly watched by a vigilant and sagacious administration. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. “You!” she exclaimed. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. And it has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned. And the age gets higher.
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