“How old are you?” “Sixteen. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. You’re a lady. She did not know herself. She took to listening through closed doors. I am guilty practically of the impertinence of coming to ask you whether I misunderstood your sister. He well knows that but two lives—those of Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland Trenchard,—stand between you and the vast possessions of the family.
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