” “I’m not. A spacious suite of rooms down the hall John described as “my parents love den” with a grimace as Lucy smiled. We could go to University together. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked.
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