She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. "Perhaps you don't know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you. But now it was all over, and Alice was getting on well. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. He hadn't played fair. I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall,” he went on, with a sudden glance at her, “if I tell you that you yourself remind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and colouring are altogether different. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. “It’s a matter of feeling with me.
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