There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. She wished she had not stood up. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness. “Lady Ferringhall, sir.
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