Wood's advice and assistance, but the thought of the reception she was likely to meet with from his wife deterred her from executing this resolution. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. But for him she might have been alive and happy.
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