My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. “Dear friend,” she said, “remember that you are speaking to one who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. It was neither good nor bad. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand.
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