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. He carried a small bag. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. After all, she was a consummate actress. His literary instincts were reviving. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours.
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