A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. This is a mere boy. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done.
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